TO A TURTLE-DOVE

Turtle-dove mysterious
Mournfully thy loving chants
               Uttering,
Agitated, tremulous,
Like the rain upon the plants
               Fluttering.

How thy plumage with the sigh
From thy bosom palpitating
               Rises light,
Like the water murmuring by
When the wavelet vacillating
               Foameth white.

Timid, beauteous turtle-dove,
Gentle, melancholy gnest
               'Mong the hills,
Thy complaining note of love,
Thy sweet song of deep unrest,
               Never stills.

Sing it, sing it, gently wooing
Her thy tender mate and friend,
               Sing thy loves.
Thou shalt see thy artless cooing
Sympathetic life doth send
               Through the groves.

Why, since thou so well dost please
Murmuring in my wearied ear
               Soft and low,
Is my breast so ill at ease
When thy plaintive song I hear
               Trembling so ?

Is it because I also feel as thou,
O'erburdcned with my bosom's tenderness ?
Is it because my sweetest sorrow now
Thy love ineffable would fain express ?

With newer fire my heart is animate
In listening to thy passionate complaint.
Is it because I also sigh and wait,
By love's ensnarement held in long restraint?

May not thy sadness then my sadness be?
For with the selfsame note our song we strike ;
If we are never one in melody,
In grieving we are surely then alike.