“Ah, Are You Digging on My Grave?”
“Ah, are you digging on my graveMy loved one?—planting rue?”—“No: yesterday he went to wedOne of the brightest wealth has bred.‘It cannot hurt her now,’ he said,‘That I should not be true.’”
“Then who is digging on my grave?My nearest dearest kin?”—“Ah, no; they sit and think, ‘What use!What good will planting flowers produce?No tendance of her mound can looseHer spirit from Death’s gin.’”
“But some one digs upon my grave?My enemy?—prodding sly?”—“Nay: when she heard you had passed the GateThat shuts on all flesh soon or late,She thought you no more worth her hate,And cares not where you lie.”
“Then, who is digging on my grave?Say—since I have not guessed!”—“O it is I, my mistress dear,Your little dog, who still lives near,And much I hope my movements hereHave not disturbed your rest?”
“Ah, yes! You dig upon my grave . . .Why flashed it not on meThat one true heart was left behind!What feeling do we ever findTo equal among human kindA dog’s fidelity!”
“Mistress, I dug upon your graveTo bury a bone, in caseI should be hungry near this spotWhen passing on my daily trot.I am sorry, but I quite forgotIt was your resting-place.”
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