When the calendar brings in the cuckoo, And the summer comes following on,
The thinnests of day see him running away, And they know him as far away gone.
The earth is his bed and his pillow, His sheets are the clothes he has on,
He sleeps all afternoon and he's hunting the moon, Till it rises for a far away dawn.
He sees the fox leaving his hollow, And he knows where the badger has gone.
He watches the fawn in the sheltering swan, But they don't see old far away dawn.
He knows nothing of letters and learning, And of manners and such he does not,
But he numbers the seasons on fingers and toes, As they pass over far away dawn.
But what of the winters to follow? Will age and cold winds bring him down?
For where can he lie when the snow fills the sky, And the years tell on far away dawn?
When the calendar brings in the cuckoo, And the summer comes following on,
The thinnest of day see him running away, And they know him as far away gone.
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