Columba, O Columba, come again,
And murmur softly at my window-pane!

One day a dove in at our window flew,
A comely dove with neck of iris hue.
He seemed bewildered, far from home, and lost,
As if on some wild wind he had been tossed,
Then in the after-lull had drifted down
And sought a refuge in our friendly town; —
I know not, — but for weeks he lingered near,
And every day I heard his murmur clear
And soft as music from a fairy flute
Or far-heard throb of mandolin or lute,
So gently would he murmur.

He was tame,
And every morning to the window came
To eat the oats and corn I scattered there;
Then would he croon, and preen his feathers fair
And entertain me with his murmur sweet,
While sideways on the sill with dainty feet
He stepped, with air most solemn and sedate
And head aslant, as pondering the fate
That kept folks bound to books through such long hours
While all outdoors was bright with sun and flowers!

At last, in late October, off he flew.
Alas, the lovely creature never knew
How much I miss my little fairy friend,
And how I hope a kindly fate will send
This darling dove some day again to cheer
Our dusty hours with murmured music clear.

Columba , with your lovely Latin name,
Come back again as long ago you came,
And croon your pensive songs upon the sill;
Tap on the window with your little bill
And tell us how the sunshine and the flowers
Rebuke us for our long and bookish hours.
Columba, O Columba, come again,
And murmur gently at my window-pane.