The other poem is breezy and sentimental enough to be something that would be written by a pulp romance authoress.
Here's something modern, but I think very effective (and affecting):
MISSING OUR DOGS
Old men miss many dogs.
They only live a dozen years,if that,
And by the time you are sixty, there are several
The names of which evoke remembering smiles.
You see them in your mind,heads cocked and seated.
You see them by your bed, or in the rain,
Or sleeping by the fire by nights
And always dying.
They are remembered like departed children
Though they gave vastly more than ever they took,
And finally you're seeing dogs that look like them.
They pass you in the street but never turn
Although it seems they should,their faces so familiar.
Old men miss many dogs.
- Steve Allen
The only thing I know of Kipling's that he wrote in blank verse were some of his "Epitaphs of the War" - after he lost his only son in WWI. They are very good.
Salonikan Grave
I have watched a thousand days
Push out and crawl into night
Slowly as tortoises.
Now I, too, follow these.
It is fever, and not the fight—
Time, not battle—that slays.
Epitaph to a Dog[4]
Near this Spot
are deposited the Remains of one
who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferosity,
and all the virtues of Man without his Vices.
This praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
if inscribed over human Ashes,
is but a just tribute to the Memory of
BOATSWAIN, a DOG,
who was born in Newfoundland May 1803
and died at Newstead Nov. 18, 1808.
When some proud Son of Man returns to Earth,
Unknown by Glory, but upheld by Birth,
The sculptor’s art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rests below.
When all is done, upon the Tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been.
But the poor Dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his Master’s own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonoured falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the Soul he held on earth –
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power –
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy tongue hypocrisy, thy words deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye, who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on – it honors none you wish to mourn.
To mark a friend’s remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one – and here he lies.
I think we all have days we feel like this...Especially those last two lines.
Poor Lord Byron only had his friend for 5 years.:-(
Don't anyone get me started on Old Drum ...There was a statue dedicated to him in the town where I attended college.