THE CAT 



In grave displeasure, if I raise 

 Your languid form to pet or praise; 

 And so to sleep again. 



The gentler hound that near me lies, 

 Looks up with true and tender eyes, 



And waits my generous mirth; 

 You do not woo me, but demand 

 A gift from my unwilling hand, 



A tribute to your worth. 



You loved me when the fire was warm, 

 But, now I stretch a fondling arm, 



You eye me and depart. 

 Cold eyes, sleek skin, and velvet paws, 

 You win my indolent applause, 



You do not win my heart. 



Arthur Christopher Benson. 



