Poor restless dove, I pity thee; <br />And when I hear thy plaintive moan, <br />I mourn for thy captivity, <br />And in thy woes forget mine own. <br /> <br />To see thee stand prepared to fly, <br />And flap those useless wings of thine, <br />And gaze into the distant sky, <br />Would melt a harder heart than mine. <br /> <br />In vain-in vain! Thou canst not rise: <br />Thy prison roof confines thee there; <br />Its slender wires delude thine eyes, <br />And quench thy longings with despair. <br /> <br />Oh, thou wert made to wander free <br />In sunny mead and shady grove, <br />And, far beyond the rolling sea, <br />In distant climes, at will to rove! <br /> <br />Yet, hadst thou but one gentle mate <br />Thy little drooping heart to cheer, <br />And share with thee thy captive state, <br />Thou couldst be happy even there. <br /> <br />Yes, even there, if, listening by, <br />One faithful dear companion stood, <br />While gazing on her full bright eye, <br />Thou mightst forget thy native wood. <br /> <br />But thou, poor solitary dove, <br />Must make, unheard, thy joyless moan; <br />The heart, that Nature formed to love, <br />Must pine, neglected, and alone.<br /><br />Anne Brontë<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-captive-dove/