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The Little Dove

Ivan Ivanovitch Dmitrieff

The little dove, with heart of sadness,
In silent pain sighs night and day,
What now can wake that heart to gladness?
His mate beloved is far away.

He coos no more with soft caresses,
No more is millet sought by him,
The dove his lonesome state distresses,
And tears his swimming eyeballs dim.

From twig to twig now skips the lover,
Filling the grove with accents kind,
On all sides roams the harmless rover,
Hoping his little friend to find.

Ah! vain that hope his grief is tasting,
Fate seems to scorn his faithful love,
And imperceptibly is wasting,
Wasting away, the little dove!

At length upon the grass he threw him,
Hid in his wing his beak and wept,
There ceased his sorrows to pursue him,
The little dove for ever slept.

His mate, now sad abroad and grieving,
Flies from a distance home again,
Sits by her friend, with bosom heaving,
And bids him wake with sorrowing pain.

She sighs, she weeps, her spirits languish,
Around and round the spot she goes,
Ah! charming Chloe's lost in anguish,
Her friend wakes not from his repose!

Home :: Poetry :: Ghosts of Pain (4) :: The Little Dove

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