They forget not, the mantle of sleep beneath—
How know we if under the wings of death?
THE WINGS OF THE DOVE.
“Oh, that I had wings like a dove, for then would I fly away and be at rest.”—Psalm lv.
Oh, for thy wings, thou dove!
Now sailing by with sunshine on thy breast;
That, borne like thee above,
I too might flee away, and be at rest!
Where wilt thou fold those plumes,
Bird of the forest-shadows, holiest bird?