THE DOVE
by
John Keats

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 hands 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?