"The Snow-White Dove"

The Snow-White Dove

Her book fell from her listless hand,

       (The night was sweet, the hour was late.)

In a near wood she heard a dove

       Mournfully grieving for its mate.

The last red rose was drenched with rain

       That shook in perfume, wet and faint;

Dead vines stirred on her window pane—

       And still the dove grieved out its plaint.

Her throbbing head sank on her hand,

       (She could not read, she could not write),

And now that snow-white dove has flown

       Against her pane to pant for light.

And ah, the thing within her breast

       That beats for light like that poor dove!

It is so pure one only dares

       To name it God-set, perfect Love.

And yet—that hurt dove panting there,

       Dying alone for its dead mate!

She saw—she heard; she bowed her head

       And wept and wept. (The hour was late!)

"The Snow-White Dove" printed in The Seattle Times on October 20, 1900, in Higginson's own literary column titled "Clover Leaves." Clipping courtesy of the Ella Higginson Papers, Center for Pacific Northwest Studies, Heritage Resources, Western Washington University, Bellingham WA.