(1888) 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 , 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 ! Too quick despairer , wherefore wilt thou go ? Soon will the high Midsummer pomps come on , Soon will the musk carnations break and swell , Soon shall we have gold - dusted snapdragon , Sweet - William with his homely cottage smell , 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 .He hearkens not ! light comer , he is flown ! 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 , And scent of hay new - mown , But Thyrsis never more we swains shall see ..