Waiting at the Ferry – poem

stream grass

On the banks of that lonely river
Where the Stygian waters roll,
All patiently through the weary years
Waiteth a little dog soul.

O, long are the years and weary
Since the little dog stepped ashore,
But halted, humbly there to wait
By the stream he will cross no more

To the water’s edge he hurries
When Charon’s barque draws near,
For “when HE comes,” the little dog thinks,
“He must find me watching here.”

With faith undimmed, heart unafraid,
He waits on that lonely strand
For the smile of an unforgotten face,
For the touch of his master’s hand.

While the far-away master never dreams
That where Stygian waters brim,
Unheeding the pearly gates flung wide,
His little dog waits for him.

David Lee Wharton

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