Poems (Chilton, 1885)/Rab
RAB.
A little mound in the garden, Aside from the box-bordered walk,Tells in such language as flowers And only flowers can talk—(No need of other inscription, No need of memorial slab,)Tells that, all still and silent, Underneath lies our little Rab.
And yet in fancy I see him, Alert, overflowing with life,Now racing across the grass-plot With the children in playful strife;Then, with head drooping saucily sideways, On his haunches, with heaving breast,A waiting the further onset, While the children stop to rest.
Rab, with his coat so silky, Seal brown set off by white,With his long, soft ears, and his questioning eyes Aglow with an inner light;Shall we see him no more forever, Will he come no more at our call,He, the delight of the household, The merriest, maddest of all?
Ah, Rab! we will miss you sadly, As we look at the spot where your name,Wrought of the ash's red berries, Glows as if written in flame.And the flowers will bloom and wither, For many and many a day,On the little grave where the children Have tenderly laid you away.