Classic Poem

Though cats and birds be hardly friends,
We doubt the Maeterlinckian word
That must dishonour the White Cat,
Even to honour the Blue Bird.

And if once more in later days
His baseless charge the Belgian brings,
Great ghosts shall rise to vindicate
The right of cats to look at kings.

The Lord of Carabas shall come
In gold and ermine, silk and furs,
To tell of that immortal cat
That wore its boots and won its spurs.

Great Whittington shall show again
The state that London lends her Lord,
Where the great golden griffins bear
The blazon of the cross and sword.

And hear the ancient bells anew,
And talk and not ignobly brag
What glorious fortunes followed when
He let the cat out of the bag.

And Gray shall leave the graves of Stoke
To weep over a gold-fish bowl—
Cowper, who, beaming at his cat,
Forgot the shadow on his soul.

Then shall I rise and name aloud
The nicest cat I ever knew,
And make the fairy fancies pale
With half a hundred tales of you:

Till Pasht upon his granite throne
Glare with green eyes to hear the news,
Jealous; and even Puss in Boots
Will wish that he were in your shoes.

When I shall pledge in saucers full
Of milk, on which the kitten thrives,
Feline felicities to you
And nine extremely prosperous lives.