Clarissa, 6

Wounded, in distress, and sickly,
On a lovely summer’s morrow
Men I fly, and bury quickly
In the wood my bitter sorrow.

As I move, in mute compassion
All the noisy birds are vying;
At my grief in wondrous fashion
Each dark linden-tree is sighing.

In the vale I sadly sit on
Some green bank, sweet balm exhaling:
“Kitten! O my pretty kitten!”
And the hills repeat my wailing.

Kitten! O my pretty kitten!
Why delightest thou to do ill?
Sadly is my poor heart smitten
By thy tiger-talons cruel.

For my heart, grown stern and sadden’d,
Long had been to joy a stranger,
Till by new love I was gladden’d
At thy sight, and fear’d no danger.

Thou in secret seem’dst to mew thus:
“Have no fear of being bitten;
“Prythee trust me when I sue thus,
“I’m a very gentle kitten.”

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