Grace Fallow Norton

O DOVE, you lay on the altar of her

Called Venus, called goddess of love.

Your wings were wounded, you did not stir.

And you died ’mid her flowers, O Dove.

But a breath stirred the world, it flooded to you,

And you quivered and lived, O Dove!—

And lifted your wings and flew—and flew

To Mary, called mother of love.

And you touched the son of Mary, the maid,

By the great white throne of love.

But the flowers at Mary’s footstool fade,

And you died ’mid her flowers, O Dove!

Oh, live again! Fly on to mine own,

Mine own bright garden of love!

The wind is cold round the ancient throne,

And my day desires you, O Dove!