The Dove

If haply thou, O Desdemona Morn, Shouldst call along the curving sphere, "Remain, Dear Night, sweet Moor; nay, leave me not in scorn!" With soft halloos of heavenly love and pain; -- Shouldst thou, O Spring! a-cower in coverts dark, 'Gainst proud supplanting Summer sing thy plea, And move the mighty woods through mailed bark Till mortal heart-break throbbed in every tree; -- Or (grievous `if' that may be `yea' o'er-soon!), If thou, my Heart, long holden from thy Sweet, Shouldst knock Death's door with mellow shocks of tune, Sad inquiry to make -- `When may we meet?' Nay, if ye three, O Morn! O Spring! O Heart! Should chant grave unisons of grief and love; Ye could not mourn with more melodious art Than daily doth yon dim sequestered dove.