“Ah, are you digging on my grave,
+++++++My loved one?—planting rue?”
—”No: yesterday he went to wed
One of the brightest wealth has bred.
‘It cannot hurt her now,’ he said,
+++++++‘That I should not be true.'”

“Then who is digging on my grave,
+++++++My nearest dearest kin?”
—”Ah, no: they sit and think, ‘What use!
What good will planting flowers produce?
No tendance of her mound can loose
+++++++Her spirit from Death’s gin.'”

“But someone digs upon my grave?
+++++++My enemy?—prodding sly?”
—”Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate
That shuts on all flesh soon or late,
She thought you no more worth her hate,
+++++++And cares not where you lie.

“Then, who is digging on my grave?
+++++++Say—since I have not guessed!”
—”O it is I, my mistress dear,
Your little dog , who still lives near,
And much I hope my movements here
+++++++Have not disturbed your rest?”

“Ah yes! You dig upon my grave—
+++++++Why flashed it not to me
That one true heart was left behind!
What feeling do we ever find
To equal among human kind
+++++++A dog’s fidelity!”

“Mistress, I dug upon your grave
+++++++To bury a bone, in case
I should be hungry near this spot
When passing on my daily trot.
I am sorry, but I quite forgot
+++++++It was your resting place.”