Tory, a Puppy
He lies in the soft earth under the grass,
Where they who love him often pass.
And his grave is under a tall young lime,
In whose boughs the pale green hop-flowers climb;
But his spirit—where does his spirit rest?
It was God who made him—God knows best.
Where they who love him often pass.
And his grave is under a tall young lime,
In whose boughs the pale green hop-flowers climb;
But his spirit—where does his spirit rest?
It was God who made him—God knows best.
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