THE CAT 



The Cat 



On some grave business, soft and slow, 

 Along the garden-paths you go, 



With bold and burning eyes: 

 Or stand, with twitching tail, to mark 

 What starts and rustles in the dark, 



Among the peonies. 



The dusty cockchafer that springs 

 Upon the dusk with whirring wings, 



The beetle, glossy-horned, 

 The rabbit pattering through the fern, 

 May frisk unheeded, by your stern 



Preoccupation scorned. 



You go, and when the morning dawns 

 O'er blowing trees and dewy lawns, 



Dim-veiled with gossamer, 

 When cheery birds are on the wing, 

 You creep, a wild and wicked thing, 



With stained and starting fur. 



You all day long, beside the fire, 

 Retrace in dreams your dark desire, 

 And mournfully complain 



