The Messenger

 The Dove Poem
John Keats

I had a dove, and the sweet dove died;

And I have thought it died of grieving:

Oh, what could it grieve for? its feet were tied

With a silken thread of my own hands’ weaving.

Sweet little red feet! Why should you die–

Why would you leave me, sweet bird! why?

You lived alone in the forest tree;

Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me?

I kiss’d you oft and gave you white peas;

Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?