Three Voices

By George Sterling

White dove, the morning light
    Is on the grasses,
  And in each wind that passes
A coolness of the night.
    "Love! Young love!" you call.

Grey dove, the moon is blue,
    No winds remaining.
  Low, low is your complaining,
In woodlands dim for you.
    "Love! Soft love!" you cry.

Dark dove, where shadows are
  None hears you calling.
  Night and the dews are falling,
Below the evening star.
    "Love! Lost love!" you mourn.

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