Poem for Brigid meme
(Brigid of the peat-heaps, Brigid of the Blogs)
You might expect I would put up something by Gwydion, Yeats, or Kipling, something *Seasonal*...
But it was recently brought to my attention how few folks know Roberson Jeffers .(1887-1962). We claim him as a California Poet--He built his house here,(with his own hands) when Carmel was still wild.
...(And, its been about a year since Cu, my old dog, died, and around a month since our friend Blue joined her.(he is the reason I took up dog-sitting)
--P.S. Shorty is still around, doing well, though getting grey.
So you get, (With *Sadness* Warning!)
The House Dog's Grave
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 nights 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 that when you are lying
Under the ground like me your lives will appear
As good and joyful as mine.
No, dears, 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.
You might expect I would put up something by Gwydion, Yeats, or Kipling, something *Seasonal*...
But it was recently brought to my attention how few folks know Roberson Jeffers .(1887-1962). We claim him as a California Poet--He built his house here,(with his own hands) when Carmel was still wild.
...(And, its been about a year since Cu, my old dog, died, and around a month since our friend Blue joined her.(he is the reason I took up dog-sitting)
--P.S. Shorty is still around, doing well, though getting grey.
So you get, (With *Sadness* Warning!)
The House Dog's Grave
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 nights 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 that when you are lying
Under the ground like me your lives will appear
As good and joyful as mine.
No, dears, 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.