Poetry Archives

Each day when it’s anighing three
          Old Dick looks at the clock,
Then proudly brings my stick to me
          To mind me of our walk.
And in his doggy rapture he
          Does everything but talk.

But since I lack his zip and zest
          My old bones often tire;
And so I ventured to suggest
          Today we hug the fire.
But with what wailing he expressed
          The death of his desire!

He gazed at me with eyes of woe
          As if to say: ‘Old boy,
You mustn’t lose your grip, you know,
          Let us with laughing joy,
On heath and hill six miles or so
          Our legs and lungs employ.’

And then his bark was stilled to a sigh
          He flopped upon the floor;
But such a soft old mug am I
          I threw awide the door;
So gaily, though the wind was high
          We hiked across the moor.