The Cuckoo
THAT'S the cuckoo, you say. I cannot hear it.When last I heard it I cannot recall; but I knowToo well the year when first I failed to hear it--It was drowned by my man groaning out to hissheep "Ho! Ho!"
Ten times with an angry voice he shouted"Ho! Ho!" but not in anger, for that was hisway.He died that Summer, and that is how I rememberThe cuckoo calling, the children listening, and mesaying, "Nay."
And now, as you said, "There it is," I was hearingNot the cuckoo at all, but my man's "Ho! Ho!"instead.And I think that even if I could lose my deafnessThe cuckoo's note would be drowned by the voiceof my dead.
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