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.