The Loosing

By George Sterling

"Where's my old dog?" I cry in jest,
As the child from the house above
Sinks her hands in his broad, white chest
And strains him back from his love.

Well she knows, as she holds him fast,
That his heart is otherwhere—
That I wait for his frantic leaps at last,
And his roguish, dear despair.

"Where's my old dog?" I cry again,
As the pines shut close on the trail;
There comes a sound from that throat so fain
As my feet go swift in the dale.

His bark rings far through the darkling wood,
Mutinous, eager, strong;
And I smile as I think that, though she would,
She cannot hold him for long.

"Where's my old dog?" I cry once more.
Ah, foolish clamor and quest!
For though he tugs on a neighbor's floor
His kennel waits in my breast.

The wood is still as the twilight hush
Renders its world-caress;
Who so fleet in the crackling brush—
Blind in his eagerness?

Love-hot yelps of a heart set free!
Gladly I welcome the shock,
As my dog flows upward in joy on me,
Like the foam on a weed-brown rock!

Bibliography Entry