Pink feet, bright feathers, and wide, warm wings.
Thousands of pigeons all the year
Fly in and out of the arches here.
What prisoned hands have torn at the stone
Where your soft hand lies—oh my heart!—alone?
What prisoned eyes have grown blind with tears
To see what we see after all these years—
The free, broad river go smoothly by
And the free, blithe birds 'neath the free, blue sky?
And now—O Time, how you work your will!