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Perhaps you may be able to read it in that, so here it is: "Sumer is ycumen in, Lhude sing cuccu; Groweth sed, and bloweth med, And springth the wde nu, Sing cuccu! Awe bleteth after lomb, Lhouth after calve cu; Bulluc sterteth, bucke verteth, Murie sing cuccu. Cuccu, cuccu, well singes thu cuccu, Ne swike thu naver nu. Sing cuccu, nu, sing cuccu, Sing cuccu, sing cuccu, nu!"*
Sometimes this freshness seems due in part to the poet's early place in the development of his national literature: he has had, as it were, the first chance at his particular subject. There were countless springs, of course, before a nameless poet, about 1250, wrote one of the first English lyrics for which we have a contemporary musical score: "Sumer is icumen in, Lhude sing cuccu."
It is quite a mistake to suppose I shall be jealous. You've no idea what a magnanimous elder brother you've got." So Adrian had said when they came in, and had felt his way to the piano it was extraordinary how he had learned to feel his way about and had played the air of "Sumer is ycumin in, lhude sing cucu," with the courage of a giant.
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