Poems (Angier)/My Dove

by Annie Lanman Angier

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.

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 early years, I loved to sit,
 Beside the open door,
My spirit chiming to the waves,
 That break on wisdom's shore:
And now, my bucket I would drop,
 In Truth's deep hidden well;
In hope to draw thence shining pearls,
 Whose worth no tongue can tell.

The wind's low moan, the insect's hum,
 Both say strange things to me;
In my Dove's face, I meaning trace,
 And something human see;
That speaks of tender yearning,
 Of love, no change can know;
Of heaven-born friendship, tried and true,
 And pure as spotless snow.

I question not deep mysteries,
 But leave them to the sage;
Content to read the simpler truths,
 Inscribed on Nature's page—
And from this gentle monitor,
 My timid, white-winged Dove;
I daily seek, by heart to learn,
 Life's holiest lesson—Love.