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A poet's cat, sedate and
grave,
as poet would wish to have,
was much addicted to enquire,
for nooks to which she might
retire,
and where, secure as mouse
in chink,
she might repose, or sit and
think.
I know not where she caught
her trick,
nature perhaps herself had
cast her,
in such a mold philosophique,
or else she learn'd it of
her master.
Sometimes ascending,
debonair,
an apple tree or lofty pear,
lodg'd with convenience in
the fork,
she watched the gard'ner at
his work;
sometimes her ease and
solace sought,
in an old empty wat'ring
pot,
there wanting nothing, save
a fan,
to seem some nymph in her
sedan,
apparell'd in exactest sort,
and ready to be borne in
court.
William Cowper (1731 - 1800) |
