The Doves

The doves fly out, the doves fly in,
Brighter than cloud above,
From thee to me, and again to thee,
Out of my heart, O Love.

My heart is troubled and hushed with wings
From the deep, beneath, above;
And the hovering flight of more white things
Than Earth hath the gladness of.

After one call they follow, all;—
Thy call to me, O Love:
Lightning out of the blue, but mine
In the likeness of the Dove.