I had a dove and the sweet dove died;
And I have thought it died of grieving:
O, what could it grieve for? Its 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 lived alone in the forest tree,
Why, pretty thing, would you not live with me?
I kissed you oft and gave you white peas:
Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?