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.