I HAD a dove and the sweet dove died; 
And I have thought it died of grieving: 
O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied, 
With a silken thread of my own hand’s weaving; 
Sweet little red feet! why should you die – 
Why should you leave me, sweet bird! why? 
You liv’d 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? 


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