Some life of men unblest
  He knew, which made him droop, and fill’d his head. 
    He went; his piping took a troubled sound
    Of storms deg. that rage outside our happy ground;
  He could not wait their passing, he is dead. deg. deg.50

So, some tempestuous morn in early June,
  When the year’s primal burst of bloom is o’er,
    Before the roses and the longest day—­
  When garden-walks and all the grassy floor
    With blossoms red and white of fallen May deg. deg.55
      And chestnut-flowers are strewn—­
  So have I heard the cuckoo’s parting cry,
    From the wet field, through the vext garden-trees,
    Come with the volleying rain and tossing breeze:  The bloom is gone, and with the bloom go I deg.! deg.60

Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt thou go? 
  Soon will the high Midsummer pomps deg. come on, deg.62
    Soon will the musk carnations break and swell,
  Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon,
    Sweet-William with his homely cottage-smell, 65
      And stocks in fragrant blow;
  Roses that down the alleys shine afar,
    And open, jasmine-muffled lattices,
    And groups under the dreaming garden-trees,
  And the full moon, and the white evening-star. 70

He hearkens not! light comer, deg. he is flown! deg.71
  What matters it? next year he will return,
    And we shall have him in the sweet spring-days. 
With whitening hedges, and uncrumpling fern,
  And blue-bells trembling by the forest-ways, 75
    And scent of hay new-mown. 
  But Thyrsis never more we swains deg. shall see; deg.77
    See him come back, and cut a smoother reed, deg. deg.78
    And blow a strain the world at last shall heed deg.—­ deg.79
  For Time, not Corydon, deg. hath conquer’d thee! deg.80

Alack, for Corydon no rival now!—­
  But when Sicilian shepherds lost a mate,
    Some good survivor with his flute would go,
  Piping a ditty sad for Bion’s fate deg.; deg.84
    And cross the unpermitted ferry’s flow, deg. deg.85
      And relax Pluto’s brow,
  And make leap up with joy the beauteous head
    Of Proserpine, deg. among whose crowned hair deg.88
    Are flowers first open’d on Sicilian air,
  And flute his friend, like Orpheus, from the dead. deg. deg.90