O gentle dove, my heart aches raw with yearning. For when you nestle on your mother’s knee And nibble at her hands which feed you free Delights, the sweetness of your sung conversing, I croak and spoil your tuneful versing, Your antiphon in which there’s writ for me No part. And once your lilting melody Returns, when I withdraw, I fall to cursing The patient lips which part to coo and call Her pet, amused to meet the gaze of hazel eyes And winning blood on ivory blush, and all The smiling grace as yet to me denied. If I could be this dove, and take to wing, Then I could be her love, and with her sing.
