Explore "The Captive Dove. Acton Bell" by Charlotte Brontë on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Poor restless dove, I pity thee; / And when I hear thy plaintive moan, / I mourn for thy captivity, / And in thy woes forget mine own.
To see thee stand prepared to fly, / And flap those useless wings of thine, / And gaze into the distant sky, / Would melt a harder heart than mine.
In vain -- in vain! Thou canst not rise: / Thy prison roof confines thee there; / Its slender wires delude thine eyes, / And quench thy longings with despair.
Oh, thou wert made to wander free / In sunny mead and shady grove, / And far beyond the rolling sea, / In distant climes, at will to rove!
Yet, hadst thou but one gentle mate / Thy little drooping heart to cheer, / And share with thee thy captive state, / Thou couldst be happy even there.
Yes, even there, if, listening by, / One faithful dear companion stood, / While gazing on her full bright eye, / Thou mightst forget thy native wood
But thou, poor solitary dove, / Must make, unheard, thy joyless moan; / The heart that Nature formed to love / Must pine, neglected, and alone.