 | Words by the Wayside |  |
37
My Dachshund
Three foot of high-bred beauty black and tan,Low-bodied, bandy-legged, with out-turned toes
Waddling, twelve inches from the ground she goes,
Yet nearer heaven than many a proper man,
If love can lift her. Let who doubts it scan
The mute soul mirrored in her glance when glows
The heart behind it, and brute-nature grows
Too noble for a thing so brief of span.
How paint the sullen look wherethrough peeps, shy
Affection, the spasmodic ecstasies,
The puzzled puckers of her brow? Dear beast!
Egyptian hieroglyph she surely is,
Or else quaint Indian idol—mine at least,
For her idolater till death am I.
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