His Summer dried that evening sour, <br /> Young Homer lay dying, his field, each hour. <br /> Laid , as if slain, like the Lamb, <br /> Pain disquiet until movement began. <br /> His words could not say, what they actually meant, <br /> a wag of his tail, a thought of response <br /> Panting his way bid death's masked Babel, <br /> Like Cobalt metal it drew his labe.. <br /> Cleansing his soul with God's peace to last, <br /> Duties he performed right to the last. <br /> But when the Siren's call resounded, <br /> He conceded loss to his usual pundness. <br /> With all his family who devoted care, <br /> The dying phase ceased with memories shared.<br /><br />Douglas Scott<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/homer-dying/
