Thomas Wade (1805–1875)

TWO heavenly doves I saw, which were indeed

Sweet birds and gentle,—like the immortal pair

That waft the Cyprian chariot through the air,—

And with their songs made music, to exceed

All thought of what rich poesy might be;

At which a crow, perched on a sullen tree,

Dingy and hoarse, made baser by their brightness,

Would fain be judge of melody and whiteness,

And cawed dire sentence on those sweet-throat turtles;

To which his fellow-flock of carrion things

Croaked clamorous assent; but still the wings

Of those pure birds are white amid the myrtles

Of every grove, where cull they nectar’s seed,

Whilst still on cold, dead flesh, those carrion creatures feed.