And the old dog—not pausing
At her bowl for a long choking drink,
Or to bite the burrs from her toes, and stretch
Sideward to the fire, dreaming over their tramp in the stubble—
Would creep to his feet
Bristling a little ...
And I,
I should be there, in the old place,
All the old life bubbling up in me,
And to him no more felt than the sap