The Cuckoo.
(Zezhulice)
UPON the plain an oak-tree stands,
A cuckoo there doth sing,
And still she mourns and still complains,
That 'tis not always Spring.
How in the fields could ripen corn,
If Spring were evermore?
How apples on the orchard-trees,
Were Summer ne'er to go?
Or how, the ears in garners freeze
Were nought but Autumn known?
How woeful were it for the maid,
If always left alone!
Národní knihovna v Praze [sign. 9 H 520]