Buster
Oscar
Alfie
Poem - - Robinson Jeffers, 1941
I've changed my ways a little; I cannot now
Run with you in the evenings along the
shore,
Except in a kind of dream; and you, if you dream a moment,
You see me there.
So
leave awhile the paw-marks on the front door
Where I used to scratch to go out or
in,
And you'd soon open; leave on the kitchen floor
The marks of my drinking-pan.
I
cannot lie by your fire as I used to do
On the warm stone,
Nor at the foot of your
bed; no, all the night through
I lie alone.
But your kind thought has laid me less
than six feet
Outside your window where firelight so often plays,
And where you sit
to read--and I fear often grieving for me--
Every night your lamplight lies on my
place.
You, man and woman, live so long, it is hard
To think of you ever dying
A little
dog would get tired, living so long.
I hope than when you are lying
Under the ground
like me your lives will appear
As good and joyful as mine.
No, dear, that's too much
hope: you are not so well cared for
As I have been.
And never have known the passionate
undivided
Fidelities that I knew.
Your minds are perhaps too active, too many-sided.
. . .
But to me you were true.
You were never masters, but friends. I was your friend.
I
loved you well, and was loved. Deep love endures
To the end and far past the end.
If this is my end,
I am not lonely. I am not afraid. I am still yours.