The Dove

O BIRD that seems’t in solitude
O’er tearful memories to brood
What sorrow hast thou known ?
Or is thy voice an oracle
Interpreting the souls that tell
No vision of their own?
Thy life, alas, is loneliness
Wherein, with shadowy caress,
Soft preludings of pain
Tell that some captive of the heart
Is preening, ready to depart
And ne’er to come again.

John B. Tabb.