The water-hens hear it, the rail and the smew, And they say,--“Why on land there’s a pretty to-do! Sure the Cuckoo’s come back, what else can be the matter? The pyes and the jays are all making a clatter!” “Hark! hark!” says the woodcock, “I hear him myself, Shouting up in the elm-tree, the comical elf!” “Hark! hark!” cries the widgeon, “and I hear him too, Shouting loudly as ever, that self-same Cuckoo!” “Well, well,” says the wild duck, “what is it to us; I’ve no spite ’gainst the Cuckoo; why make such a fuss? Let him shout as he listeth--he comes over sea-- And his French may be French, ’t is no matter to me; I have no spite against him, my soul’s not so narrow, I leave all such whims to the tomtit and sparrow!” “Cuckoo!” the Cuckoo shouts still, “You may all hold your peace, I shall do as I will!” “Cuckoo!” the Cuckoo doth cry, And the little boys mock him as they go by. THE USE OF FLOWERS. God might have bade the earth bring forth Enough for great and small, The oak-tree and the cedar-tree, Without a flower at all. We might have had enough, enough For every want of ours, For luxury, medicine and toil, And yet have had no flowers. The ore within the mountain mine Requireth none to grow; Nor doth it need the lotus-flower To make the river flow. The clouds might give abundant rain; The nightly dews might fall, And the herb that keepeth life in man Might yet have drunk them all. Then wherefore, wherefore were they made, All dyed with rainbow-light, All fashioned with supremest grace Upspringing day and night:-- Springing in valleys green and low, And on the mountains high, And in the silent wilderness Where no man passes by? Our outward life requires them not-- Then wherefore had they birth?-- To minister delight to man, To beautify the earth; To comfort man--to whisper hope, Whene’er his faith is dim, For who so careth for the flowers Will much more care for him! SUNSHINE. I love the sunshine everywhere,-- In wood and field and glen; I love it in the busy haunts Of town-imprisoned men. I love it when it streameth in The humble cottage door, And casts the chequered casement shade Upon the red-brick floor. I love it where the children lie Deep in the clovery grass, To watch among the twining roots The gold-green beetles pass. I love it on the breezy sea, To glance on sail and oar, While the great waves, like molten glass, Come leaping to the shore. I love it on the mountain-tops, Where lies the thawless snow, And half a kingdom, bathed in light, Lies stretching out below.