My little doves have left a nest

Upon an Indian tree,

Whose leaves fantastic take their rest

Or motion from the sea;

For, ever there, the sea-winds go

With sunlit paces to and fro.

The tropic flowers look'd up to it,

The tropic stars look'd down,

And there my little doves did sit,

With feathers softly brown,

And glittering eyes, that shew'd their right

To general nature's deep delight.

And God them taught, at every close Of murmuring waves beyond, And green leaves round, to interpose Their choral voices fond, Interpreting that love must be The meaning of the earth and sea.

Fit ministers! of living loves, Theirs hath the calmest fashion. Their living voice the likest moves

To lifeless intonation -

The lonely monotone of springs,

And winds, and such insensate things.

My little doves were ta'en away

From that glad nest of theirs,

Across an ocean rolling gray,

And tempest-clouded airs,

My little doves - who lately knew

The sky and wave by warmth and blue!

And now, within the city prison,

In mist and dullness pent,

With sudden upward look they listen

For sounds of past content -

For lapse of water, swell of breeze,

Or nut-fruit falling from the trees.

The stir without, the glow of passion,

The triumph of the mart,

The gold and silver as they clash on

Man's cold metallic heart,

The roar of wheels, the cry for bread -

These only sounds are heard instead.

Yet still, as on my human hand

Their fearless heads they lean,

And almost seem to understand

What human musings mean,

(Their eyes, with such a plaintive shine,

Are fasten'd upwardly to mine !)

Soft falls their chant as on the nest

Beneath the sunny zone;

For love, that stirr'd it in their breast,

Has not a-weary grown,

And 'neath the city's shade can keep

The well of music clear and deep.

And love that keeps the music, fills

With pastoral memories.

All echoings from out the hills,

All droppings from the skies,

All Sowings from the wave and wind,

Remember'd in their chant I find.

So teach ye me the wisest part, My little doves! to move Along the city ways with heart Assured by holy love, And vocal with such songs as own A fountain to the world unknown.

'Twas hard to sing by Babel's stream,

More hard in Babel's street!

But if the soulless creatures deem

Their music not unmeet

For sunless walls - let us begin,

Who wear immortal wings within.

To me fair memories belong

Of scenes that used to bless,

For no regret, but present song,

And lasting thankfulness,

And very soon to break away,

Like types, in purer things than they.

I will have hopes that cannot fade,

For flowers the valley yields!

I will have humble thoughts instead

Of silent dewy fields!

My spirit and my God shall be

My seaward hill, my boundless sea.

Elizabeth B. BROWNING.