His voice was buried among trees,
Yet to be come at by the breeze.
It did not cease; but cooed and cooed,
And somewhat pensively he wooed;
He sang of love with quiet blending.
Slow to begin, and never ending;
Of sorrows, faith, and inward glee;
That was the song, the song for me.
And again, still more happily:
Over his own sweet voice the Stock Dove broods.