|
HEY, Toby, Toby, Toby!—Dead? The silence is a flood That closes, choking, overhead, And chills the living blood. The leaping friend, whose jolly bark Was greeting every night, No more to thrill the summer dark With welcome of delight? Beside his grave I bend the knee, And O, my eyes are dim. He hunted for the dog in me: I found the man in him. |