I have wandered where the cuckoo fills
The woodlands with her magic voice:
I have wandered on the brows of hills
Where the last heavenward larks rejoice:
Far I have wandered by the wave,
By shadowy loch and swaying stream,
But never have I found the grave
Of him who made me a wandering Dream.
If I could find that lonely place
And him who lies asleep therein,
I'd bow my head and kiss his face
And sleep and rest and peace would win.

He made me, he who lies asleep
Hidden in some forgotten spot
Where winds sweep and rains weep
And foot of wayfarer cometh not:
He made me, Merlin, ages ago,
He shaped me in an idle hour,
He made a heart of fire to glow
And hid it in an April shower!
For I am but a shower that calls
A thin sweet song of rain, and pass:
Even the wind-whirled leaf that falls
Lingers awhile within the grass,
But I am blown from hill to vale,
From vale to hill like a bird's cry
That shepherds hear a far-off wail
And woodfolk as a drowsy sigh.

And I am tired, whom Merlin made.
I would lie down in the heart of June
And fall asleep in a leafy shade
And wake not till in the Faery Moon
Merlin shall rise our lord and king,
To leave for aye the tribes of Man,
And let the clarion summons ring
The kingdom of the Immortal Clan.
If but in some green place I'd see
An ancient tangled moss-like beard
And half-buried boulder of a knee
I should not flutter away afeared!
With leap of joy, with low glad cry
I'd sink beside the Sleeper fair:
He would not grudge my fading sigh
In the ancient stillness brooding there.

If well thou view'st us with no squinted eye,
No partiall judgement, thou wilt quickly rate
Thy wealth no richer then my povertie;
My want no poorer then thy rich estate:
Our ends and births alike; in this, as I;
Poore thou wert born, and poore again shalt die.

My little fills my little-wishing minde;
Thou having more then much, yet seekest more:
Who seeks, still wishes what he seeks, to finde;
Who wishes, wants; and who so wants, is poore:"
Then this must follow of necessitie;
Poore are thy riches, rich my povertie.

Though still thou gett'st, yet is thy want not spent,
But as thy wealth, so growes thy wealthy itch:
But with my little I have much content;
Content hath all; and who hath all, is rich:
Then this in reason thou must needs confesse,
If I have little, yet that thou hast lesse.

What ever man possesses, God hath lent,
And to his audit liable is ever,
To reckon, how, and where, and when he spent:
Then this thou bragg'st, thou art a great receiver:
Little my debt, when little is my store:
The more thou hast, thy debt still growes the more.

But seeing God himself descended down
T'enrich the poore by his rich povertie;
His meat, his house, his grave, were not his own,
Yet all is his from all eternitie:
Let me be like my Head, whom I adore:
Be thou great, wealthie, I still base and poore.