The Dove

O tender, beauteous dove, Calling such plaintive things! Wilt serve unto my love, And be my love's own wings?

O, but we 're like, poor heart! Thy dear one, too, is far. Remembering, apart, Each weeps beneath the star.

Let not thy rosy feet Stay once on any tower,-- I am so fain, my sweet,-- So weary turns the hour!

Forswear the palm's repose That spreadeth over all, And gables where the snows Of other pinions fall.

Now fail me not, nor fear! He dwelleth near the king. Give him this letter, dear, These kisses on thy wing.

Then seek again my breast, This flaming, throbbing goal, Then come, my dove, and rest-- But bring me back his soul!