John Keats (1795–1821)

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 hand’s 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?