The Dove
If haply thou, O Desdemona Morn,Shouldst call along the curving sphere, “Remain,Dear Night, sweet Moor; nay, leave me not in scorn!”With soft halloos of heavenly love and pain;—
Shouldst thou, O Spring! a-cower in coverts dark,’Gainst proud supplanting Summer sing thy plea,And move the mighty woods through mailed barkTill mortal heart-break throbbed in every tree;—
Or (grievous `if’ that may be `yea’ o’er-soon!),If thou, my Heart, long holden from thy Sweet,Shouldst knock Death’s door with mellow shocks of tune,Sad inquiry to make—`When may we meet?’
Nay, if ye three, O Morn! O Spring! O Heart!Should chant grave unisons of grief and love;Ye could not mourn with more melodious artThan daily doth yon dim sequestered dove.
Chadd’s Ford, Pennsylvania, 1877.