Every night I strike a path that leads me to a mountain,
Amidst pale blue, sparkling waters flowing from a fountain.
This is the place, to which I am bound,
A place where I can remember, my Beagle Hound.

In the brook and by the stream,
I recall your presence like a dream.
Stumbling across stones were you once tread,
I find the spot where you lay dead.

The wind carries the note of your beckoning call,
Leading me to the place where you took your fatal fall.
But all of this means nothing, for if you are not here to hear,
The words that I utter, that I hold very dear.
Never again should there be anything in comparison to you,
For nothing can be as honest, graceful, and true.