We mourn the loss of our little pet, <br />And sigh o'er her hapless fate, <br />For never more by the fire she'll sit, <br />Nor play by the old green gate. <br /> <br />The little grave where her infant sleeps <br />Is 'neath the chestnut tree. <br />But o'er her grave we may not weep, <br />We know not where it may be. <br /> <br />Her empty bed, her idle ball, <br />Will never see her more; <br />No gentle tap, no loving purr <br />Is heard at the parlor door. <br /> <br />Another cat comes after her mice, <br />A cat with a dirty face, <br />But she does not hunt as our darling did, <br />Nor play with her airy grace. <br /> <br />Her stealthy paws tread the very hall <br />Where Snowball used to play, <br />But she only spits at the dogs our pet <br />So gallantly drove away. <br /> <br />She is useful and mild, and does her best, <br />But she is not fair to see, <br />And we cannot give her your place dear, <br />Nor worship her as we worship thee.<br /><br />Louisa May Alcott<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-lament-for-s-b-pat-paw/
