Young Christ went groaning up to Quarantana,
With His tall head flung up against the sky.
Spring cried to Him from every bush and bramble.
He passed her blindly by.

Oh, every tree was given up to blossom,
And every bee burred in the broken lane,
But as He passed, the little bees and blossoms
Were still with love and pain.

And every bird bent sideways in its sorrow,
And whispered softly to Him as He went,
“My brightness, are you black and lost in anguish,
My sweetness, are you spent?”

Yea, every bird except the careless Cuckoo,
That, working on, in flurry and in fret,
Hollowed a nest, and cried its own name over,
Nor saw His eyes were wet.

Young Christ came smiling down from Quarantana,
He blessed each bird along the broken lane,
And said, “My little pity, it is over.
My gladness, sing again.”

And then He turned and looked upon the Cuckoo.
It gave one cry and flew off to the west.
Since then it may not cease its haunted flying,
Nor ever build a nest.