Though prejudice perhaps my mind befogs,
I think I know no finer things than dogs:
The young ones, they of gay and bounding heart,
Who lure us in their games to take a part,
Who with mock tragedy their antics cloak
And, from their wild eyes’ tail, admit the joke;
The old ones, with their wistful, fading eyes,
They who desire no further paradise
Than the warm comfort of our smile and hand,
Who tune their moods to ours and understand
Each word and gesture-, they who lie and wait
To welcome us-with no rebuke if late.
Sublime the love they bear, but ask to live
Close to our feet, unrecompensed to give;
Beside which many men seem very logs-
I think I know no finer things than dogs.
