XL

Beneath the stars and yonder waning moon,
Over the brooks that sparkle to the main,
Through the plumed phalanx of the yellow grain
Across the scented fields of teeming June;
On summer days, at morn, at eve, at noon,
And when the tangled streams of wintry rain
Slanted themselves athwart the roaring plain,
My patient heart has sung the self-same tune.
Like a poor bird, with but a single note,
Whose frequent songs, though same and tiresome, prove
His constant nature cannot change his throat
To suit our pleasure; so, a homely dove,
Whether I nestle close, or upward float,
I can but cry to thee, I love, I love!