The cuckoo sings its beautiful melodies,
No tutor teaches how its voice should ring,
No guide to shape its wild, untamed memories—
Yet forth it pours a song without a sting.
Of honey, flowers, bees, and sunbirds bright,
It carols lovers true in lonely hours;
When sadness falls, it mourns through starless night
With sorrow’s words in soft, enchanting powers.
But beauty’s voice conceals a cruel mind,
That slips its eggs into the black crow’s nest;
The hatching chicks destroy her tender kind,
While she warms killers gently at her breast.
The crow learns late, revenge beyond her range;
We love the thief—make honest crows scavenge.
