Library of the World's Best Literature/The Doves

On the hill-side, yonder where are the graves, A fine palm-tree, like a green plume, Stands with head erect; in the evening the doves Come to nestle under its cover.

But in the morning they leave the branches; Like a spreading necklace, they may be seen Scattering in the blue air, perfectly white, And settling farther upon some roof.

My soul is the tree where every eve, as they, White swarms of mad visions Fall from heaven, with fluttering wings, To fly away with the first rays.

Holubi Les Colombes (Gautier)