The difficulty to think at the end of day, <br />When the shapeless shadow covers the sun <br />And nothing is left except light on your fur— <br /> <br /> <br />There was the cat slopping its milk all day, <br />Fat cat, red tongue, green mind, white milk <br />And August the most peaceful month. <br /> <br />To be, in the grass, in the peacefullest time, <br />Without that monument of cat, <br />The cat forgotten in the moon; <br /> <br />And to feel that the light is a rabbit-light, <br />In which everything is meant for you <br />And nothing need be explained; <br /> <br />Then there is nothing to think of. It comes of itself; <br />And east rushes west and west rushes down, <br />No matter. The grass is full <br /> <br />And full of yourself. The trees around are for you, <br />The whole of the wideness of night is for you, <br />A self that touches all edges, <br /> <br />You become a self that fills the four corners of night. <br />The red cat hides away in the fur-light <br />And there you are humped high, humped up, <br /> <br />You are humped higher and higher, black as stone— <br />You sit with your head like a carving in space <br />And the little green cat is a bug in the grass.<br /><br />Wallace Stevens<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-rabbit-as-king-of-the-ghosts/
