Classic Poem

A mighty Pyrenean wolf-hound lies
Beside me while I work or think or dream,
And midnight passes like a mystic stream,
And in the icy blue of winter skies

Star after star grows wonderful and dies:
To me those bright orbs yield no glory or gleam,
Snug, curtained, and intent upon my theme,
Wrapt in myself. Even so my great dog sighs

Close at my feet, in visions of the chase
Of wild wolves howling over hills of snow,
Slain by his stalwart fathers, long ago.

My thoughts within him have no resting-place:
Of me he knows just what of him I know.
Strange is the stern fate that hath made it so.