She Dotes

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She Dotes

She dotes on what the wild birds say

Or hint or mock at, night and day⁠—

Thrush, blackbird, all that sing in May,

And songless plover,

Hawk, heron, owl, and woodpecker.

They never say a word to her

About her lover.

She laughs at them for childishness,

She cries at them for carelessness

Who see her going loverless

Yet sing and chatter

Just as when he was not a ghost,

Nor ever ask her what she has lost

Or what is the matter.

Yet she has fancied blackbirds hide

A secret, and that thrushes chide

Because she thinks death can divide

Her from her lover;

And she has slept, trying to translate

The word the cuckoo cries to his mate

Over and over.