Open here I flung the shutter, when with gentle nod and flutter,
In there came a gracious white dove of the saintly days of yore.
Then, as if obeisance made he, and no longer stopp’d or stay’d he,
But in innocence array’d, he perch’d above my chamber-door,—
Perch’d upon a bust of Paulus, just above my chamber-door—
Perch’d and sat, and nothing more.
IX.
Then this snowy bird surprising my sad heart into surmising,
Whether this was done at random, or some mystic meaning bore,—
“Surely,” said I, “thou art fairer than of ill to be the bearer,