Poems (Piatt)/Volume 2/The Dove and the Angel

by Sarah Piatt

THE DOVE AND THE ANGEL.

The roses and stars were in blossom:
 She leant by the lattice alone,
And a pet dove, white as a lily,
 Flew out of the night with a moan,
And nestled down close in her bosom,
 To hide from the wound in its own.

Tears rained on the snow of its plumage,
 Tears rained on the golden moonshine;
"Ah, beautiful, tremulous darling,"
 She murmured, "my life is like thine—
Only I have no bosom to fly to,
 My bird, as you fly into mine."

The south-moon dropped under the shadow,
 Yet she stayed to remember and weep,
Till—what was the wonderful Presence,
 So quiet and holy and deep,
That stole through the dreams of the roses,
 Till they shook out their sweetness in sleep?

Ah, an Angel that once was a mortal
 Flew out of the glories unknown,
And, like the white dove from the darkness
 That came to her love with its moan,
She nestled down close in his bosom,
 And hid from the wound in her own.