To a Lady, LXXI

Another—another! dear bird of my love, Stay, stay thy worn winglet, thou beautiful dove! His bosom was heaving, and panting for breath; His maiden-like eye, it was filmy as death; And the dear little creature, he wing’d me by So faint, and so feeble, I knew he would die: And he seem’d like a spirit broke loose from earth, That long’d to be off to a purer birth, That rose into heaven, and joyously there Was happy a moment, in heavenly air, But wearied anon of its hope, and its wing, Was dropping to earth again: poor little thing!