DARK is her cheek, but her blood’s rich blush <br />Comes through its dusk with a sunset flush, <br />While joy, like a prairie-bee, slaketh its drouth <br />At the red honey-cup of her smiling mouth, <br />And her wild eyes glow, like meteors, there <br />’Neath the streaming storm of her night-black hair. <br />And ever I pride in my forest choice, <br />The more while I list to her bird-like voice, <br />Warbling old songs in her own wild speech, <br />But with this new burden still added to each; <br />“Who’ll pity, who’ll comfort the dark wood-dove <br />When the white hawk leaves her to die of love? <br /> <br />O then, by the artless tears that rise <br />’Neath the downcast lids of her gleaming eyes— <br />By the truthfully tender and touching grace <br />That boding passion then lends to her face— <br />I swear, in the very wild spirit of love, <br />Never to leave her, my Indian dove! <br /> <br /><br /><br />Charles Harpur<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-hunter-s-indian-dove/
