Jim

JIM DOG is dead — they’re saying so.
He’s nicely boxed and left beneath
A rosebush. Suddenly I know
A large contempt for death.
Those gay bones resting calm and shriven,
Ashes of roses? Ten to one
All up and down the hills of heaven
Rabbits are on the run.
I ’ll wager if I died to-night
And, halting by the river’s rim
A bit bewildered at my plight,
Should call, ‘Here, Jim! Here, Jim!’—
Yelping with glory, glad and rough,
He’d hurtle down the farther side,
And soon I’d feel a warm, wet scruff
Towing me through the tide.