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The Cat Of The House

Sunday, 3 May, 2015

Cat

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
you
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 (1873 – 1939)


Filed in: Poetry • Tags: , ,

Comments (1)

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  1. Henry Barth says:

    Nice cat, nice poem.