The Wings of the Dove.
“Oh, that I had wings like a dove, for then would I fly away and be at rest.”—Psalm lv.
Oh, for thy wings, thou dove!
Now sailing by with sunshine on thy breast;
That, borne like thee above,
I too might flee away, and be at rest!
Where wilt thou fold those plumes,
Bird of the forest-shadows, holiest bird?
In what rich leafy glooms,
By the sweet voice of hidden waters stirr’d?
Over what blessed home,
What roof with dark, deep summer foliage crown’d,
O fair as ocean’s foam!
Shall thy bright bosom shed a gleam around?
Or seek’st thou some old shrine
Of nymph or saint, no more by votary woo’d,
Though still, as if divine,
Breathing a spirit o’er the solitude?
Yet wherefore ask thy way?
Blest, ever blest, whate’er its aim, thou art!
Unto the greenwood spray,
Bearing no dark remembrance at thy heart!
No echoes that will blend
A sadness with the whispers of the grove;
No memory of a friend
Far off, or dead, or changed to thee, thou dove!
Oh! to some cool recess
Take, take me with thee on the summer wind,
Leaving the weariness
And all the fever of this life behind:
The aching and the void
Within the heart, whereunto none reply,
The young bright hopes destroy’d—
Bird! bear me with thee through the sunny sky!
Wild wish, and longing vain,
And brief upspringing to be glad and free!
Go to thy woodland reign:
My soul is bound and held—I may not flee.
For even by all the fears
And thoughts that haunt my dreams—untold, unknown,
And burning woman’s tears,
Pour’d from mine eyes in silence and alone;
Had I thy wings, thou dove!
High midst the gorgeous isles of cloud to soar,
Soon the strong cords of love
Would draw me earthwards—homewards—yet once more.