I will not think those good brown eyes
Have spent their light of truth so soon;
But in some canine Paradise
Your wraith, I know, rebukes the moon,
And quarters every plain and hill
Seeking its master. As for me,
This prayer at least the gods fulfill—
That when I pass the floor, and see
Old Charon by the Stygian coast
Take toll of all the shades who land,
Your little, faithful, barking ghost
May leap to lick my phantom hand.
Anonymous.
JACK
Dog Jack has gone on the silent trail,
Wherever that may be;
But well I know, when I whistle the call,
He will joyfully answer me.
That call will be when I, myself,
Have passed through the Gates of Gold;
He will come with a rush, and his soft brown eyes
Will glisten with love as of old.
Oh, Warder of Gates, in the far-away land,
This little black dog should you see,
Throw wide your doors that this faithful friend
May enter, and wait for me.