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.