BY RALPH HODGSON
'Twould ring the bells of Heaven
The wildest peal for years,
If Parson lost his senses
And people came to theirs,
And he and they together
Knelt down with angry prayers
For tamed and shabby tigers,
And dancing dogs and bears,
And wretched, blind pit-ponies,
And little hunted hares.
My little old dog:
A heart-beat
At my feet.
Here Shock, the pride of all his kind, is laid,
Who fawn'd like man, but ne'er like man betray'd.
Let scoffers doubt it if they will-
Too real a little chap he moved,
And ran and romped, and wagged and loved,
Not to be somewhere still.
Granted he did not have a soul,
There's surely some reward of merit
For having such a trustful spirit,
A friendship so heart-whole.
Of course he could not hope for heaven,
-He might not look on seraphim,—
But, somehow, I believe there's given
A place his Maker meant for him;
That if we saw with clearer eyes,
And deeper mysteries had learned,
His small brown form might be discerned.
Safe in some humble paradise.
Perched, cheerful, in a cozy niche
(Most like his cherished window-seat,
Cushioned and comforting) from which
He gazes on the pleasant street,
A wise and watchful wrinkle wearing
While all the old-time folk go past;
And pricks a prideful ear, at last
And, all ecstatic, sets abeat
A celebrating tail—keen hearing
The fall of dear familiar feet.
I cannot find it in my creed,
Yet very plain it seems to me
That, off, away at topmost speed,
Afire with hospitality,
He deems himself, and is, indeed,
The little dog he used to be.
Readers of riddles dark,
Solve me the mystery of the Spark!
My good dog died yesternight.
His heart of love through his eyes of light
Had looked out kind his whole life long.
In all his days he had done no wrong.
Like a knight's was his noble face.
What shall I name the inward grace
That leashed and barred him from all things base?
Selfless trust and courage high-
Dust to dust, but are these to die?
(Hate and lust and greed and lies-
Dust to dust, and are these to rise?)
When 'tis kindled, whither it goes,
Whether it fades, or glows and grows-
Readers of riddles dark,
Solve me the mystery of the Spark!
SO I MAY FEEL THE HANDS OF GOD
How swiftly, once, on silvery feet
I saw thee bound beneath the sun!
Oh, savage innocence! The fleet,
The wild, the sweet, the glistening one!
God made in thee the gentlest sound
To win for thee the dear caress.
Like flowers growing in the ground
We heard that trembling daintiness.
Thou art strange Nature's subtlest child,
The offspring of her alien mood.
Now age has come on thee, the wild,
And stricken thee, the simply good.
Animal sweetness, when it goes,
Leaves emptiness behind.
Dear, thou must wither like the rose
And dimness take thy creature mind.
No more we laugh to see thee run-
The innocent, the fierce, the sweet!
Thy snow-white dancing in the sun!
The rushing of thy happy feet!
The hearthstone and the friendly touch,
Thou art grown needy, now, for these.
How strange that wanting them so much
Thou hast forgot the arts to please.
Oh, creature age! creature distress!
The haunting, old, and dim surprise!
Would I might charm with tenderness
The grief from those bewildered eyes!
Thou hast no more, at love's commands,
The simple sweetness of a purr.
Then let me comfort with my hands
The saddening of thy shining fur.
When cold afflicts thy piteous sod
Then let me warm that need of thine,
So I may feel the hands of God
Laid over thee-more close than mine.
The days shorten, the south blows wide for showers
The south wind shouts to the rivers,
The rivers open their mouths and the salt salmon
Race up into the freshet.
In Christmas month against the smoulder and menace
Of a long 'angry sundown,
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