Now my Love, long like a Dovelet driven
From the Falcon to and fro in fear,
Turns rejoicing that her Nest is near,
In the branches of a Bower of Heaven!
O poor Dove! O trust delusive given!
Like no other’s is her fate austere;
Scarce an instant will her Home appear,
Ere a quick prey to the tempest-levin.
Ah, she wanders here and there in vain,
Poor one, ‘twixt the earth and heaven to hover,
Without limit to her flight of pain,
For a heart in sympathy to love her
Yet, as one time—beaming warmly over,
Never more with beat on earth again.
