Chapter V

Who are these that fly; As doves, and as doves to the windows? Doves, like hovering dreams round Love that slumbereth; Silvering clouds blown by, Doves and doves to the windows,-- Warm through the radiant sky their wings beat breath. They are the world's new-born: Doves, doves to the windows! Lighting, as flakes of snow; Lighting, as flakes of flame; Some to the fair sown furrows; Some to the huts and burrows Choked of the mire and thorn,-- Deep in the city's shame. Wind-scattered wreaths they go, Doves, and doves, to the windows; Some for worshipping arms, to shelter and fold, and shrine; Some to be torn and trodden, Withered and waste, and sodden; Pitiful, sacred leaves from Life's dishonored vine.