The Literary Dog

For this week's Literary Dog installment, I return to Thomas Hardy. (It's true. I love the Victorians.) This time I offer a poem. It's a classic. Can you guess how it will end? 

Ah, Are You Digging on My Grave?

"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 thing, 'What use!

What good will planting flowers produce?

No tendance of her mound can loose 

Her spirit from Death's gin.'"

"But some one 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 on 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."

Please feel free to post comments. I would love to hear from you. 

--zia