O Love! You are the image of an angel,
Your ev'ry plume outlines a perfect form.
That wing so strong outstretched at softest angle
To beat the air, or fold me to your warmth.
When oft in dawn's pink light I spy your covert,
Which stark stands brown against down's purest white,
I yearn for fleeting moments when you hovered
With talons grasping to my mantle tight.
Too soon my eyes, too sharp, see autumn threaten
When cold will drive us south with all our brood
And you, my dove, when mine own wings grow leaden
May lose me in those lower latitudes.
Yet winter's parting is not love's finale:
Come spring, I'll catch you salmon in the Valley.
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