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Whisker and claw, they crouch in the night, Their fine eyes smouldering Green and bright… Squeaking and scampering everywhere. Then they pounce, now in, now out, At whisking tail and sniffing snout… Walter De La Mare (1873 – 1916)
They call me cruel. Do I know if a mouse or songbird feels? I only know they make me light and salutary meals. And if, as ‘tis my nature to, ere I devour I tease ‘em. Why should a low-bred gardeners’ boy pursue me with a besom? C. S. Calverley (18-31 – 84)
The cat went here and there And the moon spun round like a top. And the nearest kin of the moon, The creeping cat, looked up. W.B. Yeats (1865 – 1939
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Great Mystery Publishing |
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The Poetic Heart |
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Plump neck, short ears, height to his head proportionate; Beneath his ebony nostrils His little leonine muzzle’s Prim beauty, which appeared Fringed by the silvery beard Whish gave such waggish grace To his young dandy’s face. Joachim Du Bellay (1525 – 60) Epitaph on a Pet Cat
Everything a cat is and does physically is to me beautiful, lovely, stimulating, soothing, attractive and enchantment. Paul Callico (1897 -1976 An Honourable Cat
With a tiger-leap half way Now she meets the coming prey, Lets it go as fast, and then Has it in her power again: Now she works with three or four, Like an Indian conjurer… William Wordsworth (1770 -1810 The Kitten and Falling Leaves
“…I will eat first and wash my face afterwards.” Which all cats do, even to this day. - Charles H. Rose |
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DENT DE LION
If one should rise before the Sun, And patiently await his rays To waken with the rising day The yellow weeds that turn away Inside themselves when day is done—
One might suppose the lawn to be The night sky, and those flowers stars That wink through space and air afar, Appearing all around the yard As constellations, magically.
“Tis one I choose, but not to pick And satiate a prying mind. Without such queries do I find The answers that men seek to bind With science and with other tricks.
This Dandelion, if I dare To blow upon its hoary seeds, Can tell me if she cares for me Whom I adore, but secretly, By wafting them throughout the air!
As it is said, should one but blow While meditating of her love, The seeds will bear ones thoughts above The treetops, like a mourning dove That flies to her to let her know.
Above the grass the Lions’ teeth Are bared below their golden manes, Which dazzle with the sun again All they who toil and fret and strain To pile them on the compost heap.
The herdsmen watching sheep and kine Called her the “Rustic Oracle;” For ere the clock’s tyrannic dial Determined when we act and will, From dawn till dusk her face told time.
Should I design to speak with friends Who habitate the spirit world, A dandelion tea shall swirl Beside me when abed I curl, Its rising vapors luring them.
When past the mounds of graves I wind, To let the Dandelion grow I must take care, if I would know Good fortune. Lore allows me, though, To place them where my loved ones lie.
A “Weather Prophet” she is called: When rain approacheth, her achenes Collapse like an umbrella sheathed; And when the sky is fair, is seen By mice and men her seedy ball.
The Honeybee feels right at home: She tiptoes on the Lions’ manes And fears no evil--just the same As once the King of Beasts was tamed Beneath the hands of Saint Jerome.
The ruptured stem drips milky sap, For ugly warts the remedy; Mosquitoes do not like to fly Toward this balm! And here sit I, With lions sleeping on my lap.
My neighbors wish I were concerned To rid my property of you, My Love; for them you have no use. They study to dig up your root From where it nestles in the Earth.
But I am much inclined to leave You free to anchor where you will; To bloom on every sward and hill, Or planter on each window sill— Or nightly, in my brightest dreams.
Lee Evans © 2010 |
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