The Dove

O bird that seem'st in solitude
O'er tearful memories to brood,
What sorrow hast thou known?
Or is thy voice an oracle
Interpreting the souls that tell
No vision of their own?


Thy life, alas! is loneliness
Wherein, with shadowy caress,
Soft preludings of pain
Tell that some captive of the heart
Is preening, ready to depart,
And ne'er to come again.