By George Sterling

I saw but now a wild-dove and his mate
    Pass down the river on the morning blue;
    Above the willow's emerald they flew,
Bondless and swift, untroubled and elate.
Happy, I thought, happy their feathered fate,
    For they had sipped the dawn's elysian dew
    And found them autumn's tawny seeds a few
While as for me, I starve, I grieve, I wait!

And thou, O Far One, in thy stony nest,
Thou too art lonely, gazing to the West.
    O thou mine exquisite and tender dove,
        Follow me, follow, for my hunger grows,
        And I would gaze again upon thy snows,
    Lost heavenward in a semi-swoon of love.

Written en route.

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