 | The wind in the trees |  |
50
THE WOOD-DOVE
The first sound that I hear at morn
In the low house where I was born
Is plaint of the wood-dove forlorn,
Leaning her breast upon a thorn.
In the low house where I was born
Is plaint of the wood-dove forlorn,
Leaning her breast upon a thorn.
All day in orchard coppices
The love-moan of the wood-dove is.
Song-birds all singing, give less bliss
Than she who mourns Love's little ease.
The love-moan of the wood-dove is.
Song-birds all singing, give less bliss
Than she who mourns Love's little ease.
Crickets in sunny grass a-whir,
And many a bronze-winged trumpeter,
All the blithe country shine and stir,
And from all these I turn to her.
And many a bronze-winged trumpeter,
All the blithe country shine and stir,
And from all these I turn to her.
51
All noon, in the gold shade and sun,
Love's litany she doth intone,
Joining two lovers' names in one,
That shall not join till time be done.
Love's litany she doth intone,
Joining two lovers' names in one,
That shall not join till time be done.
All the gold afternoon again
She makes sweet music of her pain—
Love's captive, that yet hugs her chain
And of Love's whip and scourge is fain.
She makes sweet music of her pain—
Love's captive, that yet hugs her chain
And of Love's whip and scourge is fain.
At night, when all the linnets keep
Silence, and bats and owlets creep,
Ere ever I fall to honeyed sleep,
I hear the wood-dove weep and weep.
Silence, and bats and owlets creep,
Ere ever I fall to honeyed sleep,
I hear the wood-dove weep and weep.
| The wind in the trees | |