To Murphy-

PostedDate

2/24/2006 5:29:00 PM

Body

When I toured the Robinson Jeffers Tor House during January for my Humanities class, my tour guide (I was by myself) asked me to read this poem. I started thinking about how I knew I would have to say goodbye to Murph soon, so I almost cried while reading it. Really, it's a poem for anyone who's ever had a really great dog. The House Dog's Grave  I've changed my ways a little; I cannot now Run with you in the evenings along the shore, Except in a kind of dream; and you, if you dream a moment, You see me there. So leave awhile the paw-marks on the front door Where I used to scratch to go out or in, And you'd soon open; leave on the kitchen floor The marks of my drinking-pan. I cannot lie by your fire as I used to do On the warm stone, Nor at the foot of your bed; no, all the night through I lie alone. But your kind thought has laid me less than six feet Outside your window where firelight so often plays, And where you sit to read--and I fear often grieving for me-- Every night your lamplight lies on my place. You, man and woman, live so long, it is hard To think of you ever dying A little dog would get tired, living so long. I hope than when you are lying Under the ground like me your lives will appear As good and joyful as mine. No, dear, that's too much hope: you are not so well cared for As I have been. And never have known the passionate undivided Fidelities that I knew. Your minds are perhaps too active, too many-sided. . . . But to me you were true. You were never masters, but friends. I was your friend. I loved you well, and was loved. Deep love endures To the end and far past the end. If this is my end, I am not lonely. I am not afraid. I am still yours. Robinson Jeffers, 1941