I had a dove and the sweet dove died;
And I have thought it died of grieving:
O what could it grieve for?
It’s feet were tied,
With a silken thread of my own hand’s weaving,
Sweet little red feet!
Why should you die - Why should you leave me, sweet bird! Why?
You liv’d alone in the forest tree,
Why pretty thing!
Would you not live with me?
Photograph by Robbi I. Skrakowski