A wild dove clove the luminous winds and there,
Upon that limb, a peaceful moment sat.
Then I, "Thy rifle, Rudolf! pierce its head!"
Cried pointing, "and chief-forester art thou!"
Why did he falter with a face as strange
And strained as terror's? did his soul divine
What was to be, with tragic prescience?—
What a bad dream it all seems now!—Again
I see him aim. Again I hear her cry,
"My dove! O Rudolf, do not kill my dove!"