Blog Poetry

The Poet And Caged Turtledove By William Wordsworth

 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 caroled, 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.

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