The Mourning Dove

I heard the mourning dove
One summer afternoon:
Said I above,
Why do you love
To mourn our loss so soon?

No winter here nor fall,
The day is at its height;
The sun is tall,
The shadows small;
We still have so much light.

You seem so dark to me,
Then sang the dove so blue;
So well I see
Atop this tree,
Though blinded by the view.

I hear the trees that were,
Leaves rustling in the gale;
A deaf’ning stir
Your debts incur,
Their voice an endless wail.

I feel the heavy air;
I taste the poison rain;
My senses bare,
I strain to care
About our lost terrain.

I am a lonely dove,
Friends vanquished in the heat;
I moan above
To stifled love,
Do not from us retreat.

I do not want to tear;
Still, this promise I will pour:
When winter’s here
Should you not fear,
Then I will mourn no more;
Then I will mourn no more.