A Dog Waits His Dead Mistress

By George Sterling

Lift not thy head at some familiar sound:
    It is not she, the comrade taken hence.
The solitary pathway she has found
        Gives not upon the sense.

Be patient, for thou shalt forget at last—
    Forget, and in thy fashion be at peace:
Here in my changeless valley of the Past
        Her voice will never cease.

O happy! that thy brown and mournful eyes
    Look only on the barriers that are!
But mine remember how the solemn skies
        Shut westward on her star.

It is not thine to wonder, faithful friend,
    If Morning close the vigil and the pain,—
If doubt and loss be given for an end
        And sorrow to our gain.

It is not thine to hunger for her light,
    And know, as I, how long the watch must be
Till the grey sentry hear upon the night
        The word that sets him free.

Nay—lift no more thine eager head to greet
    Her presence in the garden or the hall:
It is in Paradise the soundless feet
        Fare, if they fare at all.

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