When the tea is brought at five o'clock, <br />And all the neat curtains are drawn with care, <br />The little black cat with bright green eyes <br />Is suddenly purring there. <br /> <br />At first she pretends, having nothing to do, <br />She has come in merely to blink by the grate, <br />But, though tea may be late or the milk may be <br />sour, <br />She is never late. <br /> <br />And presently her agate eyes <br />Take a soft large milky haze, <br />And her independent casual glance <br />Becomes a stiff, hard gaze. <br /> <br />Then she stamps her claws or lifts her ears, <br />Or twists her tail and begins to stir, <br />Till suddenly all her lithe body becomes <br />One breathing, trembling purr. <br /> <br />The children eat and wriggle and laugh; <br />The two old ladies stroke their silk: <br />But the cat is grown small and thin with desire, <br />Transformed to a creeping lust for milk. <br /> <br />The white saucer like some full moon descends <br />At last from the clouds of the table above; <br />She sighs and dreams and thrills and glows, <br />Transfigured with love. <br /> <br />She nestles over the shining rim, <br />Buries her chin in the creamy sea; <br />Her tail hangs loose; each drowsy paw <br />Is doubled under each bending knee. <br /> <br />A long, dim ecstasy holds her life; <br />Her world is an infinite shapeless white, <br />Till her tongue has curled the last holy drop, <br />Then she sinks back into the night, <br /> <br />Draws and dips her body to heap <br />Her sleepy nerves in the great arm-chair, <br />Lies defeated and buried deep <br />Three or four hours unconscious there.<br /><br />Harold Monro<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/milk-for-the-cat/
