And then, no matter how you try,

The thread comes out of its old eye!

But some way, now I have it done,—

I think it is a Pretty One.

THE MASTERPIECE

[Pg 29]

[Pg 29]

Ode on the Dog

I

y Pitch-dark Angel with a Rosy Tongue,

My Own—my Own,

Why can't the grown-up Things we live among

Let us alone?

Why do they have to talk the livelong day

About such silly things?

But if they must,—why can't they, anyway,

Have either Tails or Wings?

II

Of Course I cannot love them as they are,

As much as You.

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