'MID beechy umbrage, bosky dell, 'Tis there the Ring-dove loves to dwell, And thro' the still, deep hush of noon His plaintive melodies to croon. Like moonbeams on a silent pool, His liquid notes flow soft and cool; Like plashing waters heard at even, So falls his voice on hearts bereaven. Not here the upward-soaring lark With quivering throat can pierce the dark; The Nightingale might sing in vain Within the Ring-dove's hush'd domain. Sweet Bird! thy mate along the bough Listens to thy so ardent vow: She will console that woe of thine, But, ah, my mistress heeds not mine! Thy song is like a summer dream Beside some gently-rilling stream— A vale where fever'd hearts may rest In sanctuaried oblivion blest. Amid the lush and waving grass I watch the shadows as they pass, And in thy leafy covert find Brief solace for my wounded mind. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NO MATTER WHAT, AFTER ALL, AND THAT BEAUTIFUL WORD SO by HAYDEN CARRUTH THEY ACCUSE ME OF NOT TALKING by HAYDEN CARRUTH FICTION by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON LOVE'S MIRACLE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON A MILLION YOUNG WORKMEN, 1915 by CARL SANDBURG |