Explore "The Dove" by Théophile Gautier on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
O tender, beauteous dove, / Calling such plaintive things! / Wilt serve unto my love, / And be my love's own wings?
O, but we 're like, poor heart! / Thy dear one, too, is far. / Remembering, apart, / Each weeps beneath the star.
Let not thy rosy feet / Stay once on any tower, -- / I am so fain, my sweet, -- / So weary turns the hour!
Forswear the palm's repose / That spreadeth over all, / And gables where the snows / Of other pinions fall.
Now fail me not, nor fear! / He dwelleth near the king. / Give him this letter, dear, / These kisses on thy wing.
Then seek again my breast, / This flaming, throbbing goal, / Then come, my dove, and rest -- / But bring me back his soul!