Not strange, perhaps, that, on her beat,
Nature should hush, by one wide law,
The patter of four fitful feet,
The scrape of a persistent paw.
And yet the house is changed and still,
Waiting to echo as before
Hot bursts of purpose hard to chill,
And indignation at the door.
No friendly task he left unplied,
To speed the hour or while the days,