Coming anew to these poems from a prolonged perusal of Shakespeare, we are first struck by the fact that although so distinct from each other in thought as well as in music, they are akin in being not mere references to the birds, but actual addresses to particular members of the feathered tribes. In each case the ode is no cold description, but a monologue, glowing with appreciation and love, and spoken as it were directly to the subject itself. The birds are recognised as, like ourselves, “travellers between life and death.” Instead of being regarded as “unreasonable,” that is, devoid of any reasoning faculty, and gifted only with what is called “instinct,” they are felt to be linked with us by the possession of many qualities that are closely akin to some of the purest virtues of humanity. And they are acknowledged to be fellow-creatures, partners with us in the great mystery of life. They are communed with as if man’s longings could be made known to them, and as if they in turn might be brought to feel the reality and depth of his affectionate interest in them, or even perhaps be induced to reveal to him the secret of their careless happiness. The poets in their mystic rapture idealise these songsters until they almost seem to cease to be corporeal beings. Thus Wordsworth: O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering voice? * * * * * * * Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery. Shelley’s ethereal melody becomes even more ecstatic in his address to the Skylark: [Sidenote: _Wordsworth, Shelley and Keats_] Hail to thee, blithe spirit―― Bird thou never wert―― * * * * * * * Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine. To the modern poet the voices of the birds seem to express more directly and simply than any other kind of music the pure _joie de vivre_. Shelley wrote of his Skylark: Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers,―― All that ever was, Joyous and clear and fresh,――thy music doth surpass. * * * * * * * Yet, if we could scorn Hate and pride and fear, If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Keats recognised the same joyous feeling in his Nightingale: ’Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness,―― That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. Each poet seeks to interpret for himself the meaning of the song of the bird and the sources of its inspiration. To Wordsworth the Cuckoo seems to be Babbling to the vale Of sunshine and of flowers.