The House Dog's Grave

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. Robinson Jeffers, 1941

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