Three Voices
By George Sterling
White dove, the morning light
Is on the grasses,
And in each wind that passes
A coolness of the night.
"Love! Young love!" you call.
Grey dove, the moon is blue,
No winds remaining.
Low, low is your complaining,
In woodlands dim for you.
"Love! Soft love!" you cry.
Dark dove, where shadows are
None hears you calling.
Night and the dews are falling,
Below the evening star.
"Love! Lost love!" you mourn.