Chapter LXXI

Another—another! dear bird of my love,
Stay, stay thy worn winglet, thou beautiful dove!
His bosom was heaving, and panting for breath;
His maiden-like eye, it was filmy as death;
And the dear little creature, he wing’d me by
So faint, and so feeble, I knew he would die:
And he seem’d like a spirit broke loose from earth,
That long’d to be off to a purer birth,
That rose into heaven, and joyously there
Was happy a moment, in heavenly air,
But wearied anon of its hope, and its wing,
Was dropping to earth again: poor little thing!