When things are looking bleak, I think about the Doves that sit in our Mountain Ash every morning. About sixteen of them gather to wait for the light to grow brighter before they descend to the ground to eat the seeds that I have spread under the tree.
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We must combine the toughness of the serpent with the softness of the dove, a tough mind and a tender heart.” 
I heard a Stock-dove sing or say His homely tale, this very day; His voice was buried among trees, Yet to be come at by the breeze: He did not cease; but cooed--and cooed: And somewhat pensively he wooed: He sang of love, with quiet blending, Slow to begin, and never ending; Of serious faith, and inward glee; That was the song,--the song for me! ~~~ William Wordsworth
And there my little doves did sit With feathers softly brown And glittering eyes that showed their right To general Nature's deep delight. ~~~Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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Blessings,
Judy