Come, If Thou'Rt Cold To Summer'S Charms, Her Clouds Of Green, Her Starry Flowers, And Let This Bird, This Wandering Bird, Make His Fine Wonder Yours; He, Hiding In The Leaves So Green, When Sampling This Fair World Of Ours, Cries Cuckoo, Clear; And Like Lot'S Wife, I Look, Though It Should Cost My Life. When I Can Hear That Charmed One'S Voice, I Taste Of Immortality; My Joy'S So Great That On My Heart Doth Lie Eternity, As Light As Any Little Flower, So Strong A Wonder Works In Me; Cuckoo! He Cries, And Fills My Soul With All That's Rich And Beautiful.