I was too young, they said (I was not seven),

But I would understand, as I grew older,

Why the White Dove that died was not in heaven.

But they were wrong, for when I came to heaven,—

When first I came, and all was strange and lonely,

My pretty pet flew straight upon my shoulder!

And there she stays all day; at evening only,

Between my hands, close to my breast, I fold her.