I had a dove, and the sweet dove died; And I have thought it died of grieving: Oh, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied With a silken thread of my own hands’ weaving. Sweet little red feet! Why should you die? Why would you leave me, sweet bird! Why? You lived 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 still sweetly, as in the green trees? John Keats