The Dove
If haply thou, O Desdemona Morn,
Shouldst call along the curving sphere, “Remain,
Dear Night, sweet Moor; nay, leave me not in scorn!”
With soft halloos of heavenly love and pain;—
Shouldst thou, O Spring! a-cower in coverts dark,
'Gainst proud supplanting Summer sing thy plea,
And move the mighty woods through mailed bark
Till mortal heart-break throbbed in every tree;—
Or (grievous 'if’ that may be 'yea’ o’er-soon!),
If thou, my Heart, long holden from thy Sweet,
Shouldst knock Death’s door with mellow shocks of tune,
Sad inquiry to make—'When may we meet?’
Nay, if ye three, O Morn! O Spring! O Heart!
Should chant grave unisons of grief and love;
Ye could not mourn with more melodious art
Than daily doth yon dim sequestered dove.
