MY DOVES.
My little doves have left a nest
Upon an Indian tree,
Whose leaves fantastic take their rest
Or motion from the sea;
For, ever there, the sea winds go
With sunlit paces to and fro.
The tropic flowers looked up to it,
The tropic stars looked down,
And there my little doves did sit
With feathers softly brown,
And glittering eyes that showed their right
To gentle Nature's deep delight.
And God them taught, at every close
Of murmuring waves beyond,
And green leaves round to interpose
Their choral voices fond,
Interpreting that love must be
The meaning of the earth and sea.
Fit ministers! Of living loves,
Theirs hath the calmest fashion,
Their living voice the likest moves
To lifeless intonation,
The lovely monotone of spring
And winds, and such insensate things.
My little doves were ta'en away
From that glad nest of theirs,
Across an ocean rolling gray,
And tempest-clouded airs.
My little doves,—who lately knew
The sky and wave by warmth and blue!
And now, within the city prison,
In mist and chillness pent,
With' sudden upward look they listen
For sounds of past content—
For lapse of water, swell of breeze,
Or nut fruit falling from the trees.
The stir without the glow of passion,
The triumph of the mart,
The gold and silver as they clash on
Man's cold metallic heart—
The roar of wheels, the cry for bread,—
These only sounds are heard instead.
Yet still, as on my human hand
Their fearless heads they lean,
And almost seem to understand
What human musings mean,
(Their eyes, with such a plaintive shine,
Are fastened upwardly to mine!)
Soft falls their chant as on the nest
Beneath the sunny zone;
For love that stirred it in their breast
Has not aweary grown,
And 'neath the city's shade can keep
The well of music clear and deep.