Those who love cats which do not even purr <br />Or which are thin and tired and very old, <br />Bend down to them in the street and stroke their fur <br />And rub their ears, and smooth their breast, and hold <br />Them carefully, and gaze into their eyes of gold. <br /> <br />For how can they pass what does not ask for love <br />But draws it out of those who have too much, <br />Frustrated souls who cannot use it all, who have <br />Somewhere too tight and sad within them, such <br />A tenderness it flows through all they touch. <br /> <br />They are the ones who love without reward, <br />Those on whom eyes are closed, from whom heads turn, <br />Who know only too well they can afford <br />To squander love, since in the breast it burns <br />With the cold anguish every lover learns. <br /> <br />So they pass on, victims of silent things, <br />And what they love remains indifferent <br />And stretches in the sun and yawns, or licks the rings <br />That sheathe its claws, or sleeps and is content, <br />Not knowing who she was, or what she meant.<br /><br />Francis Scarfe<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cats-36/
