The Poet and the Caged Turtledove

As often as I murmur here

 My half-formed melodies,

Straight from her osier mansion near,

 The Turtledove replies:

Though silent as a leaf before,

 The captive promptly coos;

Is it to teach her own soft lore,

 Or second my weak Muse?

I rather think the gentle Dove

 Is murmuring a reproof,

Displeased that I from lays of love

 Have dared to keep aloof;

That I, a Bard of hill and dale,

 Have carolled, fancy free,

As if nor dove nor nightingale

 Had heart or voice for me.

If such thy meaning, O forbear,

 Sweet Bird! to do me wrong;

Love, blessed Love, is everywhere

 The spirit of my song:

'Mid grove, and by the calm fireside,

 Love animates my lyre—

That coo again!—'tis not to chide,

 I feel, but to inspire.