A good dog never dies. He always stays. He walks besides you on crisp autumn days when frost is on the fields and winter's drawing near. His head is within our hand in his old way.
The cry of my body for completeness. That is a cry to you.
A good dog never dies.
We are made whole by books, as by great space and the stars.
The talking oak To the ancient spoke. But any tree Will talk to me.
Where weary folk toil, black with smoke, And hear but whistles scream, I went, all fresh from dawn and dew To carry them a dream. I went to bitter lanes and dark, Who once had known the sky, To carry them a dream-and found They had more dreams than I.