Poetry Archives

Lo, as a dove when up she springs
  To bear thro’ Heaven a tale of woe,
  Some dolorous message knit below
The wild pulsation of her wings;

Like her I go; I cannot stay;
  I leave this mortal ark behind,
  A weight of nerves without a mind,
And leave the cliffs, and haste away

O’er ocean-mirrors rounded large,
  And reach the glow of southern skies,
  And see the sails at distance rise,
And linger weeping on the marge,

And saying; ‘Comes he thus, my friend?
  Is this the end of all my care?’
  And circle moaning in the air:
‘Is this the end? Is this the end?’

And forward dart again, and play
  About the prow, and back return
  To where the body sits, and learn
That I have been an hour away.