“Wow!” races off, returns again and dances—
A little wave of sunshine and brown fur—
About his old rheumatic mother-cur.
Look how she gives him back his baby bite
Tenderly as a human mother might.
Now, poor old thing—she gazes quaintly up
To laugh dog-fashion at me. “What a pup,
Master!” she seems to say: then, like a wave,
He’s down on her again—“Oh, master, see,
I’m growing old.... What spirits youngsters have!”