TO A DOG 
The curate thinks you have no soul; 
But you, 
Dear friend, whose solemn self-control, 
In our four-square familiar pew, 
Was pattern to my youth—whose bark 
Called me in Summer dawns to rove— 
Have you gone down into the dark 
Where none is welcome—none may love ? 
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 his master ... As for me, 
This prayer at least the gods fulfill: 
That when I pass the flood 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. 
— St. John Lucas 
