The Captive Dove
Poor restless dove,
I pity thee;
And when I hear thy plaintive moan,
I mourn for thy captivity,
And in thy woes forget mine own.
To see thee stand prepared to fly,
And flap those useless wings of thine,
And gaze into the distant sky,
Would melt a harder heart than mine.
In vain in vain!
Thou canst not rise:
Thy prison roof confines thee there;
Its slender wires delude thine eyes,
And quench thy longings with despair.
Oh, thou wert made to wander
In sunny mead and shady grove,
And, far beyond the rolling sea,
In distant climes, at will to rove!
Yet, hadst thou but one gentle
Thy little drooping heart to cheer,
And share with thee thy captive state,
Thou couldst be happy even there.
Yes, even there, if, listening by,
One faithful dear companion stood,
While gazing on her full bright eye,
Thou mightst forget thy native wood.
But thou, poor solitary dove,
Must make, unheard, thy joyless moan;
The heart, that Nature formed to love,
Must pine, neglected, and alone.
Anne Bronte
Other author posts
In Memory Of A Happy Day In February
Blessed be Thou for all the My soul has felt to-day Oh, let its memory stay with me, And never pass away
Weep Not Too Much
Weep not too much, my darling; Sigh not too oft for me; Say not the face of Has lost its charm for thee
The Arbour
I'll rest me in this sheltered bower, And look upon the clear blue That smiles upon me through the trees, Which stand so thickly clustering by;
Dreams
While on my lonely couch I lie, I seldom feel myself alone, For fancy fills my dreaming eye With scenes and pleasures of its own Then I may cherish at my breast An infant's form beloved and fair,
