DAVY

DAVY, her knight, her dear, was dead: Low in dust was the silken head. “Isn’t there heaven,” (She was but seven) “Isn’t there” (sobbing) “for dogs?” she said. “Man is immortal, sage or fool: Animals end, by different rule.” So had they prated Of things created, An hour before, in her Sunday-school. Trusty and glad and true, who could Match her hero of hardihood, Rancorless, selfless, Prideless, pelfless?— How I should like to be half so good! Firebrand eye and icicle nose; Ear inwrought like a guelder-rose; All the sweet wavy Beauty of Davy;— Sad, not to answer whither it goes! “Isn’t there heaven for dogs that’s dead? God made Davy, out of His head: If He unmake him, Doesn’t He take him? Why should He throw him away?” she said. The birds were busy, the brook was gay, But the little hand was in mine all day. Nothing could bury That infinite query: “Davy,—would God throw him away?”