The Captive Dove

            Poor restless dove, I pity thee;

               And when I hear thy plaintive moan,

            I mourn for thy captivity,

               And in thy woes forget my own.

            To see thee stand prepared to fly,

                And flap those useless wings of thine,

            And gaze into the distant sky,

                Would melt a harder heart than mine.

            In vain – in vain ! Thou canst not rise :

                Thy prison roof confines thee there;

            Its slender wires delude thine eyes,

                And quench thy longings with despair.

            Oh, thou wert made to wander free

                 In sunny mead and shady grove,

            And far beyond the rolling sea,

                 In distant climes, at will to rove !

            Yet, hadst thou but one gentle mate

                 Thy little drooping heart to cheer,

            And share with thee thy captive state,

                 Thou couldst be happy even there.

            Yes, even there, if, listening by,

                  One faithful dear companion stood;

            While gazing on her full bright eye,

                  Thou mightst forget thy native wood.

            But thou, poor solitary dove,

                 Must make, unheard, thy joyless moan;

            The heart that Nature formed to love

                  Must pine, neglected, and alone.

                                                                                 Anne Brontë

24 avril 2013