To Flush, My Dog by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
To Flush, My Dog by Elizabeth Barrett Browning elizabeth barrett browning stories
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classicpoet Poetry from the Masters
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Yet, my pretty sportive friend, Little is't to such an end

To Flush, My Dog by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Yet, my pretty sportive friend,

Little is't to such an end

That I praise thy rareness!

Other dogs may be thy peers

Haply in these drooping ears,

And this glossy fairness.

But of thee it shall be said,

This dog watched beside a bed

Day and night unweary--

Watched within a curtained room,

Where no sunbeam brake the gloom

Round the sick and dreary.

Roses, gathered for a vase,

In that chamber died apace,

Beam and breeze resigning.

This dog only, waited on,

Knowing that when light is gone

Love remains for shining.

Other dogs in thymy dew

Tracked the hares, and followed through

Sunny moor or meadow.

This dog only, crept and crept

Next a languid cheek that slept,

Sharing in the shadow.

Other dogs of loyal cheer

Bounded at the whistle clear,

Up the woodside hieing.

This dog only, watched in reach

Of a faintly uttered speech,

Or a louder sighing.

And if one or two quick tears

Dropped upon his glossy ears,

Or a sigh came double--

Up he sprang in eager haste,

Fawning, fondling, breathing fast,

In a tender trouble.

And this dog was satisfied

If a pale thin hand would glide

Down his dewlaps sloping--

Which he pushed his nose within,

After--platforming his chin

On the palm left open.

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