  The pigeons perch on Trinity, From cowls of saints they croon; In pious patience preen their wings Till Trinity strikes noon. They make their vows to visions fair, The maids with mid-day smiles; They wait their own communion sweet— The crumbs along the aisles. And presently from Wall Street strolls A princess past a gate; She pries apart a paper box As if she scarce could wait. She sinks upon an old settee, Her luncheon in her lap; And other maidens follow her— A score or more, mayhap. The pigeons peer from pinnacles, They see their tables spread; The sugar and the spices strewn, The crusts of creamy bread. The saints upon the walls maintain Their attitudes benign; But conquered by confusing quests, The doves drift down to dine. |
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