The House Dog's Grave (Haig, an English bulldog)
Robinson Jeffers

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            I've changed my ways a little; I cannot now
            Run with you in the evenings along the shore,
            Except in a kind of dream; and you, if you dream a moment,
            You see me there.

            So leave awhile the paw-marks on the front door
            Where I used to scratch to go out or in,
            And you'd soon open; leave on the kitchen floor
            The marks of my drinking-pan.

            I cannot lie by your fire as I used to do
            On the warm stone,
            Nor at the foot of your bed; no, all the night through
            I lie alone.

            But your kind thought has laid me less than six feet
            Outside your window where firelight so often plays,
            And where you sit to read--and I fear often grieving for me--
            Every night your lamplight lies on my place.

            You, man and woman, live so long, it is hard
            To think of you ever dying
            A little dog would get tired, living so long.
            I hope than when you are lying

            Under the ground like me your lives will appear
            As good and joyful as mine.
            No, dear, that's too much hope: you are not so well cared for
            As I have been.

            And never have known the passionate undivided
            Fidelities that I knew.
            Your minds are perhaps too active, too many-sided. . . .
            But to me you were true.

            You were never masters, but friends. I was your friend.
            I loved you well, and was loved. Deep love endures
            To the end and far past the end. If this is my end,
            I am not lonely. I am not afraid. I am still yours.