A dove lay caught in a fowler’s snare;
By cruel cords her wings were pressed,
Ruffled was all her plumage fair,
And her heart beat fast in her panting breast.

But the fowler loosened each cord and twist,
He smoothed her ruffled plumes, and then
Her snowy bosom he gently kissed
And bade her seek the skies again.

And the fowler sighed; for, safe and fair
In summer skies, he knew that she
Would think of the cord and the cruel snare,
But not of the hand that set her free.