I Had a Dove

- John Keats

I had a dove and the sweet dove died;
And I have thought it died of  grieving;
O, what could it grieve for?
Its feet were tied,
With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving:
Sweet little red feet! why should you die--
Why should you leave me, sweet bird! why?
You liv'd alone in the forest-tree,
Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me?
I kiss'd you oft and gave you white pease:
Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?

The Year's at the Spring

- Robert Browning

The year's at the spring,
     and day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in His heaven--
All's right with the world!