A DOG'S DEATH

The loose earth falls in the grave like a peaceful regular breathing;

Too like, for I was deceived a moment by the sound:

It has covered the heap of bracken that the gardener laid above him;

Quiet the spade swings: there we have now his mound.

A patch of fresh earth on the floor of the wood's renewing chamber:

All around is grass and moss and the hyacinth's dark green sprouts:

And oaks are above that were old when his fiftieth sire was a puppy:

And far away in the garden I hear the children's shouts.

Their joy is remote as a dream. It is strange how we buy our sorrow

For the touch of perishing things, idly, with open eyes;

How we give our hearts to brutes that will die in a few seasons,

Nor trouble what we do when we do it; nor would have it otherwise.