A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Doves (Théophile Gautier)
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For other versions of this work, see The Doves.
THE DOVES.
On the hill-side—up there—close to the tombs,
A straight, straight palm-tree lifts proudly its head,
Like a warrior tall, with green waving plumes;
There rest the white doves when daylight has fled.
But at the grey dawn they all quit the boughs,
Like a collar of pearls strown over the sky,
They scatter in air; some wheel round the brows
Of hills, and some rest on the cottage roofs high.
My soul is the tree, where roost every night
Wild dreams in white swarms, I may not portray,
With tremulous wings from heaven they drop bright,
To vanish at morn—for ever away.