One day I found a lost dog in the street. The hairs about its grin were spiked with blood, And it lay still as stone. It must have been A little dog, for though I only stood Nine inches for each one of my four years I picked it up and took it home. My mother Squealed, and later father spaded out A bed and tucked my mongrel down in mud.
I can’t remember any feeling but A moderate pity, cool not swollen-eyed; Almost a godlike feeling now it seems. My lump of dog was ordinary as bread. I have no recollection of the school Where I was taught my terror of dead.