Lo, as a dove when up she springs
      To bear thro' Heaven a tale of woe,
      Some dolorous message knit below
The wild pulsation of her wings;

Like her I go; I cannot stay;
      I leave this mortal ark behind,
      A weight of nerves without a mind,
And leave the cliffs, and haste away

O'er ocean-mirrors rounded large,
      And reach the glow of southern skies,
      And see the sails at distance rise,
And linger weeping on the marge,

And saying; `Comes he thus, my friend?
      Is this the end of all my care?'
      And circle moaning in the air:
`Is this the end? Is this the end?'

And forward dart again, and play
      About the prow, and back return
      To where the body sits, and learn
That I have been an hour away..

Last modified 12 February 2010