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I've changed my ways a little, I cannot now run with you in the evenings along the shore, except in a kind of dream; and you, if you dream a moment you see me there.

So leave awhile the paw-marks on the front door where I used to scratch to go out or in, and you'd soon open; leave on the kitchen floor the marks of my drinking-pan.

I cannot lie by your fire as I used to do on the warm stone,
Nor at the foot your bed; no, all the nights through I lie alone.

But your kind thought has laid me less than six feet outside your window where firelight so often plays, And where you sit to read –and I fear often grieving for me --Every night your lamplight lies on my place.

You, man and woman, live so long, it is hard to think of you ever dying.
A little dog would get tired, living so long.

I hope that you when you are laying under the ground like me your lives will appear as good and joyful as mine.

No, dears, that's too much hope: you are not so well cared for as I have been.
And never have known the passionate undivided fidelities that I knew.
Your minds are perhaps too active, too many-sided . . . .But to me you were true.

You were never masters, but friends. I was your friend. I loved you well, and was loved.

Deep love endures to the end and far past the end. If this is my end,
I am not lonely.

I am not afraid.

I am still yours.

Love, Nikki