Poems (Angier)/My Dove
MY DOVE.
I sing not of the Raven, That bird of omen ill;But of a timid white-winged Dove, That peeketh with her billUpon my cottage window, And softly seems to say—I tidings bear to thee of one, From the home-nest flown away.
I am not superstitious, In signs to put my faith;To credit every idle word, The wandering gypsy saith:But Nature hath her under-tones, Tones from my childhood dear;And many are the lessons wise, She whispers in my ear.
In early years, I loved to sit, Beside the open door,My spirit chiming to the waves, That break on wisdom's shore: And now, my bucket I would drop, In Truth's deep hidden well;In hope to draw thence shining pearls, Whose worth no tongue can tell.
The wind's low moan, the insect's hum, Both say strange things to me;In my Dove's face, I meaning trace, And something human see;That speaks of tender yearning, Of love, no change can know;Of heaven-born friendship, tried and true, And pure as spotless snow.
I question not deep mysteries, But leave them to the sage;Content to read the simpler truths, Inscribed on Nature's page—And from this gentle monitor, My timid, white-winged Dove;I daily seek, by heart to learn, Life's holiest lesson—Love.