Today is a day to think with love on memories of those who have crossed to another life. Over the years here at the Museum we've seen a number of sweetly written eulogies to pets waiting on the other shore. This year's no different; I bring you this tribute by poet St. John Lucas (1879-1934) to the friend he plans to see when he gets there.
THE CURATE THINKS YOU HAVE NO SOUL
The curate thinks you have no soul;
I know that he has none. But you,
Dear friend, whose solemn self-control,
In our four-square familiar pew,
Was pattern to my youth — whose bark
Called me in summer dawns to rove —
Have you gone down into the dark
Where none is welcome — none may love?
I will not think those good brown eyes
Have spent their light of truth so soon;
But in some canine paradise
Your wraith, I know, rebukes the moon,
And quarters every plain and hill,
Seeking his master ... As for me,
This prayer at least the gods fulfill:
That when I pass the flood and see
Old Charon by the Stygian coast
Take toll of all the shades who land,
Your little, faithful barking ghost
May leap to lick my phantom hand.