She Dotes
SHE dotes on what the wild birds sayOr hint or mock at, night and day,--Thrush, blackbird, all that sing in May,And songless plover,Hawk, heron, owl, and woodpecker.They never say a word to herAbout her lover.
She laughs at them for childishness,She cries at them for carelessnessWho see her going loverlessYet sing and chatterJust as when he was not a ghost,Nor ever ask her what she has lostOr what is the matter.
Yet she has fancied blackbirds hideA secret, and that thrushes chideBecause she thinks death can divideHer from her lover;And she has slept, trying to translateThe word the cuckoo cries to his mateOver and over.
Sign in to like, rate and collect poems, and keep track of what you've read.