O mourning dove!
To the songs you sing,
I and my closed eyes listen—
With love—
Until the morning\'s sun\'s setting,
Its golden motes seeping into my skin;
Once it’s asidely shoved,
Don’t bid it farewell—
The waiting moon.
Oh! and, my mourning dove,
Prepare, though don’t you dwell;
You will sing us again soon.
Just fly above,
Fluttering with a buoyant bluebell,
Whispering to its ears your mournful croons