Great hound that lolls against my knee,
Lips pursed in thought as if to kiss
Regret—full soon the time must be.
When one shall search, but find not ye,
For that dim moth whose labours rust
All forms in time or tapestry
—Dust.
Forth offspring to the perch and then
Clap wings—or fall, if find you must
This saddest fate of books or men