Sonnets XXXIX: To the Wood-pigeon. Written in Passion-week

Tell me, thou mild and melancholy bird,
Whence learnedst thou that meditative voice?
For all the forest-passages rejoice,
And not a note of sorrow now is heard:
I would know more — how is it I preferred
To leave the station of my morning choice,
Where, with her sudden startle of shrill noise, -
The budding thorn-bush brake the blackbird stirred?
Sweet mourner, who, in time of fullest glee,
Risest to uttering but so sad a strain,
And in the bleak winds, when they ruffle thee,
Keepest thee still, and never dost complain;
I love thee — for thy note to memory brings
This sorrowing in the midst of happiest things.