The clock is Swiss,
And a curious thing it is,
Set like a flower against the wall,
With a face of walnut brown
Twelve white eyes always staring out,
And long weights hanging down.
But there is more
At the top is a little close-shut door.
And when 'tis time for the hour-stroke,
And at the half-stroke too,
It opens wide of its own accord,
And, hark,--"Cuckoo, cuckoo!"
What do you see?
Why, with a trip and a courtesy,
As if to say,--"Good day, good day,"
Out steps a tiny bird!
And though no soul were near to hear
He'd pipe that same blithe word.
Through all the night,
Through dawn's pale flush, and noon's full light,
And even at twilight, when the dusk
Hides all the room from view,
Out of his little cabinet
He calls,--"Cuckoo, cuckoo!"
Though but a toy,
Yet might the giddiest girl or boy
Learn three most pleasant truths from it:
How patiently to wait,
How to give greeting graciously,
And never to be too late.
'Tis sweet to hear,
Though oft repeated, a word of cheer;
So this little comrade on the wall,
This bird that never flew,
Is an hourly comfort, with his call,
"Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo!"