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Cat Poetry

    The Cat of the House

    Over the hearth with my 'minishing eyes I muse; until after
    the last coal dies.
    Every tunnel of the mouse,
    every channel of the cricket,
    I have smelt,
    I have felt
    the secret shifting of the mouldered rafter,
    and heard
    every bird in the thicket.
    I see
    Nightingale up in the tree!
    I, born of a race of strange things,
    of deserts, great temples, great kings,
    in the hot sands where the nightingale never sings!

    Ford Madox Ford

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