The Power of the Dog ~ Rudyard Kipling
Kipling reflects on the inevitability of heartbreak when welcoming a pet into one's life, acknowledging that despite the inevitable grief of parting, the devotion and joy they bring make the journey entirely worth it.
There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart for a dog to tear.
When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet's unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find it's your own affair
But you've given your heart to a dog to tear.
When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!)
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone wherever it goes for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear.
We've sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve;
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-time loan is as bad as a long
So why in Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?
At A Dog's Grave ~ A.C. Swinburne
This poem speaks to the weight of loss, the secret emotional depths of our animal kin, and the gentle hope of a realm beyond. Breaking from the cold Victorian gaze that saw animals as unfeeling, Swinburne mourns his companion as a true equal. Rendered through the interweaving loops of the French roundel, the poem’s repeating refrains create a circular, musical tide, echoing the perpetual rhythm of grief and remembrance.
I
Good night, we say, when comes the time to win
The daily death divine that shuts up sight,
Sleep, that assures for all who dwell therein
Good night.
The shadow shed round those we love shines bright
As love's own face, when death, sleep's gentler twin,
From them divides us even as night from light.
Shall friends born lower in life, though pure of sin,
Though clothed with love and faith to usward plight,
Perish and pass unbidden of us, their kin,
Good night?
II
To die a dog's death once was held for shame.
Not all men so beloved and mourned shall lie
As many of these, whose time untimely came
To die.
His years were full: his years were joyous: why
Must love be sorrow, when his gracious name
Recalls his lovely life of limb and eye?
If aught of blameless life on earth may claim
Life higher than death, though death's dark wave rise high,
Such life as this among us never came
To die.
III
White violets, there by hands more sweet than they
Planted, shall sweeten April's flowerful air
About a grave that shows to night and day
White violets there.
A child's light hands, whose touch makes flowers more fair,
Keep fair as these for many a March and May
The light of days that are because they were.
It shall not like a blossom pass away;
It broods and brightens with the days that bear
Fresh fruits of love, but leave, as love might pray,
White violets there.
To Flush, My Dog ~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1844)
This excerpt from Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s tribute to her beloved Cocker Spaniel celebrates the quiet, unspoken bond between human and companion.
Rather than dwelling on loss, the poem focuses on the profound joy, warmth, and devotion a pet brings into everyday life.
It honours the gentle presence of a faithful "fellow-creature" who offers unconditional love without ever asking for anything in return.
This tender, uplifting perspective makes it a deeply comforting choice for celebrating a cherished pet's legacy.
Loving friend, the gift of one,
Who, her own true faith, hath run
Through thy lower nature;
Be my benediction said
With my hand upon thy head,
Gentle fellow-creature!
Roses, gathered for a vase, In that chamber died apace,
Beam and breeze resigning -
This dog only, waited on,
Knowing that when light is gone, Love remains for shining.
And because he loves me so,
Better than his kind will do
Often, man or woman,
Give I back more love again
Than dogs often take of men,
- Leaning from my Human.
Yet be blessed to the height
Of all good and all delight
Pervious to thy nature, -
Only loved beyond that line,
With a love that answers thine,
Loving fellow-creature!
The Cat And The Moon ~ W. B. Yeats (1917)
Cats seem to belong to our world, yet at the same time somehow to another world that is more mysterious. This poem reminds us that our beloved companion is now a part of the grand, beautiful rhythms of the universe, dancing under the stars.
The cat went here and there
And the moon spun round like a top,
And the nearest kin of the moon,
The creeping cat, looked up.
Black Minnaloushe stared at the moon,
For, wander and wail as he would,
The pure cold light in the sky
Troubled his animal blood.
Minnaloushe runs in the grass
Lifting his delicate feet.
Do you dance, Minnaloushe, do you dance?
When two close kindred meet,
What better than call a dance?
Maybe the moon may learn,
Tired of that courtly fashion,
A new dance turn.
Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
From moonlit place to place,
The sacred moon overhead
Has taken a new phase.
Does Minnaloushe know that his pupils
Will pass from change to change,
And that from round to crescent,
From crescent to round they range?
Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
Alone, important and wise,
And lifts to the changing moon
His changing eyes.
Inscription on the Monument of a Newfoundland Dog ~ Lord Byron (1808)
This is a powerful choice for a pet memorial because it honours the unmatched loyalty and devotion of an animal companion. Byron writes with intense affection for a friend who was always faithful, ready to defend, and true. It is a bold, deeply moving tribute that gives a voice to the profound truth every grieving pet owner knows: that the love and friendship of a pet can be far more genuine than almost anything else in the world.
Inscription on the Monument
Near this Spot are deposited the Remains of one who possessed Beauty without Vanity, Strength without Insolence, Courage without Ferocity, and all the Virtues of Man without his Vices. This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery if inscribed over human Ashes, is but a just tribute to the Memory of BOATSWAIN, a DOG, who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803, and died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808.
When some proud Son of Man returns to Earth,
Unknown to Glory, but upheld by Birth,
The sculptor’s art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rests below.
When all is done,
upon the Tomb is seen,
Not what he was,
but what he should have been.
But the poor Dog,
in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome,
foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his Master’s own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonoured falls,
unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the Soul he held on earth -
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power -
Who knows thee well, must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, Thy tongue hypocrisy,
thy heart deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye, who behold perchance this simple urn,
Pass on - it honours none you wish to mourn.
To mark a friend’s remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one - and here he lies.
Last Words To A Dumb Friend ~ Thomas Hardy (1904)
Written following the death of his beloved cat, Snowdove. It is a deeply moving choice for a pet memorial because it validates the profound weight of losing an animal companion. Hardy captures the painful silence of an empty home, the ache of seeing their favourite spots, and the raw truth that a pet is never 'just an animal'. It can be an honest, comforting tribute for anyone who feels the quiet, monumental presence a beloved pet leaves behind.
Pet was never mourned as you,
Purrer of the spotless hue,
Plumy tail, and wistful gaze
While you humoured our queer ways,
Or outshrilled your morning call
Up the stairs and through the hall -
Foot suspended in its fall -
While, expectant, you would stand
Arched, to meet the stroking hand;
Till your way you chose to wend Yonder, to your tragic end.
Never another pet for me!
Let your place all vacant be;
Better blankness day by day
Than companion torn away.
Better bid his memory fade,
Better blot each mark he made,
Selfishly escape distress
By contrived forgetfulness,
Than preserve his prints to make
Every morn and eve an ache.
From the chair whereon he sat
Sweep his fur, nor wince thereat;
Rake his little pathways out
Mid the bushes roundabout;
Smooth away his talons’ mark
From the claw-worn pine-tree bark, Where he climbed as dusk embrowned, Waiting us who loitered round.
Strange it is this speechless thing,
Subject to our mastering,
Subject for his life and food
To our gift, and time, and mood;
Timid pensioner of us
Powers,
His existence ruled by ours, Should - by crossing at a breath Into safe and shielded death,
By the merely taking hence
Of his insignificance -
Loom as largened to the sense,
Shape as part, above man’s will, Of the Imperturbable. As a prisoner, flight debarred, Exercising in a yard, Still retain I, troubled, shaken, Mean estate, by him forsaken; And this home, which scarcely took Impress from his little look, By his faring to the Dim Grows all eloquent of him.
Housemate, I can think you still
Bounding to the window-sill,
Over which I vaguely see
Your small mound beneath the tree,
Showing in the autumn shade
That you moulder where you played.
Epitaph on A Hare ~ William Cowper
This is a lovely choice for a pet memorial because it celebrates a pet in all their quirky, real personality; attitudes, habits, and all. It notes the daily routines, the unexpected joy, and the unique way our animals lift our spirits when we need it most. It is a tender, honest tribute to a well-loved companion finding a peaceful rest.
Here lies, whom hound did ne’er pursue,
Nor swifter greyhound follow,
Whose foot ne’er tainted morning dew,
Nor ear heard huntsman’s hallo’,
Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
Who, nursed with tender care,
And to domesticate bounds confined,
Was still a wild jack-hare.
Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance every night,
He did it with a jealous look,
And, when he could, would bite.
His diet was of wheaten bread,
And milk, and oats, and straw,
Thistles, or lettuces instead,
With sand to scour his maw.
On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,
On pippins’ russet peel;
And, when his juicy salads failed,
Sliced carrot pleased him well.
A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he loved to bound,
To skip and gambol like a fawn,
And swing his rump around.
His frisking was at evening hours,
For then he lost his fear;
But most before approaching showers,
Or when a storm drew near.
Eight years and five round-rolling moons
He thus saw steal away,
Dozing out all his idle noons,
And every night at play.
I kept him for his humor’s sake,
For he would oft beguile
My heart of thoughts that made it ache,
And force me to a smile.
But now, beneath this walnut-shade
He finds his long, last home,
And waits in snug concealment laid,
Till gentler Puss shall come.
He, still more agèd, feels the shocks
From which no care can save,
And, partner once of Tiney’s box,
Must soon partake his grave.
Ode to the Cat (Oda al Gato) ~ Pablo Neruda (1959)
A celebrated tribute to feline grace, independence, and quiet majesty. Rather than focusing on loss, Neruda honours the cat as a perfect, self-contained creature whose wild spirit and affection are a privilege to share. Both the original Spanish text and its modern English translations remain under copyright law and cannot be reproduced in full here.
Read in full →
