The Cuckoo.

         In a broad field an oak stands;
         On the oak a cuckoo
         Utters her note, and laments
         That it is not always spring.
         How could, then, the corn ripen in the field
         If it were always spring?
         
         How could the apple ripen in the garden
         If it were always summer?
         Or how could the corn freeze in the heap
         If it were always autumn?
         How sad it would be for a maiden
         If she were always alone!