A Cat

She had a name among the children;

But no one loved though someone

Her, locked her out of doors at

And had her kittens duly drowned.

In Spring, nevertheless, this

Ate blackbirds, thrushes, nightingales,

And birds of bright voice and plume and flight,

As well as scraps from neighbours’ pails.

I loathed and hated her for this;

One speckle on a thrush’s

Was worth a million such; and

She lived long, till God gave her rest.