Entering a valley in a sandy waste
Which none was journeying save myself alone,
A dog I noticed, which with piteous tone
In disconcerted grief the wild sands paced;
Now to the sky it howled, its way now traced
Snuffing the dew, now ran, now turned, now stayed,
And its concern by every mark betrayed
Of desolate delay or restless haste.
It was that it had missed its lord that morn,
And felt the separation; mark the pain
Of absence! Much did its distraction move
My pity, and 'have patience, poor forlorn,'
I cried—'I, thy superior, from my love
Am absent too, yet my regret restrain.'