by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY
POOR, dying thing: it was my dog, not I,
That did for you.
I gave you a wide arc, and moved to pass.
And yet, I was not sad that you should die;
You jarred me so; you were too motionless
And sudden, coiled there in the grass.
Now, you are coiled no longer. Now
Your splendid, streakèd back is to the ground.
Your beautiful, light-scarlet blood is spattered,
And shines in dreadful dewdrops all around.
And that white, ugly belly you had not confessed,
So naked, so unscrolled with patterns, is at last exposed.
Oh — oh — I do not like to see
A fellow-mortal’s final agony!
We shared this world all summer until now!
Now, — off you go.
All upside-down you lie, less looped than flung.
And all but done for.
And yet, — with head still raised; and that red, flickering, tongue.