THE day is a dove: she is preening an ash-grey feather: The mountains have plumage of blue as wood-pigeons use. Hark to the choir! the wood-pigeons moaning together Make a soft music hid in the golds and the blues. There's a flash of a rainbow on sea and woods: she is turning In the pale sun her irised bosom and crest. The dew-drenched grass is her mirror; the mist of the morning Shot through with her burnished colours: the glint of her breast. The day is a dove: her wings drop Peace as a raining, Soft drift the orange and gold from the trees as she moves. She broods o'er the world that rests at last uncomplaining, Under her wings and her eyes, the colour of doves. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DEJECTION by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES THE PHILOSOPHER by EMILY JANE BRONTE ON THE DEATH OF RICHARD WEST by THOMAS GRAY A GIRL OF POMPEII by EDWARD SANDFORD MARTIN SONNETS TO LAURA IN LIFE: 109 by PETRARCH FOUR LITTLE FOXES by LEW SARETT |