MY DOVE.
I sing not of the Raven,
That bird of omen ill;
But of a timid white-winged Dove,
That peeketh with her bill
Upon my cottage window,
And softly seems to say—
I tidings bear to thee of one,
From the home-nest flown away.
That bird of omen ill;
But of a timid white-winged Dove,
That peeketh with her bill
Upon 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 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:
Beside the open door,
My spirit chiming to the waves,
That break on wisdom's shore:
