A dove went up, and struck the air
Impatiently with all her wing;
I said, 'O bird thy journeying
Is like the flight of thought. But where,
'In all the regions of the sky,
When weary, and you wish to roam
No longer, do you find a home?'
And meekly did the dove reply—
'I own no fancy; I am free,
And, shooting through the yielding air,
I look and find that all is fair,
And beautiful and sweet to me.
'And wish, when tired, no sweeter rest
Than drooping down with folded wing
Within a wood whose shadows cling
Across the river's dreaming breast.'
'Well said, O bird, whose days are rife
With all the peace of rest and love,
And linked to quiet things that move
Around the orb of poet-life.'