The dogs no longer know who their own mothers
Or fathers are. For them, the doting master
Assumes the place of both, and they are grateful—
So overjoyed to serve one love alone.

They hunt, and play, and die upon his word—
For though the order be a whim, absurd,
There is a matchless beauty in fulfilling,
A thrilling of the heart to will his willing.

The master sees, and sighs, for he knows well
Such happiness, for him, can never be.
To be a thing delighting in its duty
Is the only way to live, he understands.
And though he loves, he cannot ever serve,
Which is not bliss, but hell, the lord observes.