For the dog that is not there;
And the little dog-angel cocks his ears,
And dreams that his master's call he hears.
"And I know when at length his master waits
Outside in the dark and cold,
For the hand of death to open the gates,
That lead to those courts of gold,
The little dog-angel's eager bark,
Will comfort his soul in the shivering dark."
When he finished the poem, I rubbed affectionately against the dark blue figure standing so straight and handsome in the depths of this green wood. With a boy's extravagance he had put on his very best suit of clothes to come and look for his mother, and a sad mess it was in.