The Poet and the Caged Turtledove

As often as I murmur here
   My half-formed melodies,
Straight from her osier mansion near,
   The Turtledove replies:
Though silent as a leaf before,
   The captive promptly coos;
Is it to teach her own soft lore,
   Or second my weak Muse?

I rather think, the gentle Dove
   Is murmuring a reproof,
Displeased that I from lays of love
   Have dared to keep aloof;
That I, a Bard of hill and dale,
   Have caroll’d, fancy free,
As if nor dove, nor nightingale,
   Had heart or voice for me.

If such thy meaning, O forbear,
   Sweet Bird! to do me wrong;
Love, blessed Love, is every where
   The spirit of my song:
’Mid grove, and by the calm fireside,
   Love animates my lyre;
That coo again!—’tis not to chide,
   I feel, but to inspire.