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 nights 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 that you when you are lying
Under the ground like me your lives will appear As good and joyful as mine. No, dears, 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.