A Hunter's Indian Dove

DARK is her cheek, but her blood’s rich blush Comes through its dusk with a sunset flush, While joy, like a prairie-bee, slaketh its drouth At the red honey-cup of her smiling mouth, And her wild eyes glow, like meteors, there ’Neath the streaming storm of her night-black hair. And ever I pride in my forest choice, The more while I list to her bird-like voice, Warbling old songs in her own wild speech, But with this new burden still added to each; “Who’ll pity, who’ll comfort the dark wood-dove When the white hawk leaves her to die of love? O then, by the artless tears that rise ’Neath the downcast lids of her gleaming eyes— By the truthfully tender and touching grace That boding passion then lends to her face— I swear, in the very wild spirit of love, Never to leave her, my Indian dove!