Entering a valley in a sandy waste

Entering a valley in a sandy waste Which none was journeying save myself alone, A dog I noticed, which with piteous tone In disconcerted grief the wild sands paced; Now to the sky it howled, its way now traced Snuffing the dew, now ran, now turned, now stayed, And its concern by every mark betrayed Of desolate delay or restless haste. It was that it had missed its lord that morn, And felt the separation; mark the pain Of absence! Much did its distraction move My pity, and 'have patience, poor forlorn,' I cried—'I, thy superior, from my love Am absent too, yet my regret restrain.'