For canvasback
St. John Lucas
The curate thinks you have no soul; I know that he has none. But you,
Dear friend, whose solemn self-control, In our foursquare familiar pew,
Was pattern to my youth-whose bark called me in summer dawns to rove-
Have you gone down into the dark where none is welcome-none may love?
I will not think those good brown eyes have spent their life of truth so soon;
But in some canine paradise your wraith, I know, rebukes the moon,
And quarters every plain and hill, seeking his master...As for me,
This prayer at least the gods fulfill: That when I pass the flood and see
Old Charon by the Stygian coast take toll of all the shades who land,
Your little, faithful, barking ghost may leap to lick my phantom hand.
More on dogs in heaven
http://www.picturetrail.com/members/community/homePage/blogPage.php?uid=6511424&entryID=23339 
