She has troubled many minds, this wanderer. It could not be otherwise. What mysterious music, this, when through the grey lands of the north the south wind went laughing on a vast illimitable surge of green and foam of blossom? One morning, when the missel-thrush was silent and even the skylarks sank through the hazy stillness, a far cry would be heard, a sound from the unknown, a bell out of heaven. It would float bodiless through the blue air, or call softly like an imprisoned echo in the coverts of grey cloud. Then those who heard would know that Summer had ceased from wearing her robe of white and green and yellow, and with sun-browned hands was gathering roses for her May garland, her June coronal. The bird of love is come. The sighing heart, the beating pulse, know it. She is come, voice out of the sea, voice across waters, Aphroditê of sound. Long, long ago this voice, this dim-remembered myth, was transmuted into Orpheus in the south, into Lemminkainen by the singers of the Kalevala, into Sigurd across the Scandinavian fjords, into Kukkolind along the Esthonian wastes into Cuchulaind among the Irish hills, into Coohoolin beside the foam of the Hebrides. My old nurse had a Gaelic song I have forgotten, all save its refrain, which was “_Gù-Gù, Gù-Gù, A cuisilin a-ghràidh, Cuisilin mo-chrìdhe!_” “_Cuckoo! Cuckoo! O pulse of love, Pulse of my heart!_” In the first movement of the _oran_ the singer called to the cuckoo to come, ‘Blue-bird of love.’ Why ‘blue-bird’ I am unaware, though among the Finns and Esths ‘blue-bird’ is a poetic analogue for the cuckoo. In the second lift of the _oran_, the singer cried, ‘It is come, it is come, bird of love, bird of joy.’ In the third fall the singer crooned, ‘It is gone, bird of sorrow, bird of foam, bird of the grey wind.’ And after each the swift and passionate or long, melancholy, and sorrowful refrain “_Gù-Gù! Gù-Gù! O cushleen a-ghrày Cushleen mo-chree!_” ‘The returning one’ the cuckoo is called in an old saga. It is the ancient mystery, Love, the son of Earth: the wildwood brother of him, that other Love, who puts aside the green branches of home to long for the shining stars, who sighs unappeased by white breasts and dreams of one beautiful and far-off, made of the wandering rainbow, of the dew, of the fragrance of flowers. The one comes with the green wind and goes with the grey wind: the other puts on blindness as divine vision, and deafness as a sacred veil, and wooes Psyche.