A cat I know walks poetry.
Beneath the paling stars at dawn
In perfect pride he looks upon
My garden, wet with morning dew,
And sometimes me.
He is the guardian of the blue
And blooming morning-glory vine.
Bold monarchs, drunk with flower wine,
Must bow before his majesty
And I bow too.
His tail, in eloquence, is free
As silently he wends his way
To speak the things he cannot say.
This cat I know, by night and day,
Walks poetry.