Sunday, February 17, 2013
And when I hear thy plaintive moan, I mourn for thy captivity, And in thy woes forget mine 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 were 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 couldn't be happy even there.
Yes, even there, if, listening by, One faithful dear companion stood, While gazing on her full bright eye, Thou might 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.
The Captive Dove - By Anne Bronte
Sharing light with Kimmy. Striving to create a path between the present course of events and a new course; leading to new outcomes.
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