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.
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."
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?
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?
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