Chopin

The cat and I
Together in the sultry night
Waited.
He greatly desired a mouse;
I, an idea.
Neither ambition was gratified.
So we watched
In a stiff and painful expectation.
Little breezes pattered among the trees,
And thin stars ticked at us
Faintly,
Exhausted pulses
Squeezing through mist.
Those others, I said!
And my mind rang hollow as I tapped it.

Winky, I said,
Do all other cats catch their mice?

It was low and long,

Ivory white, with doors and windows blotting blue upon it.

Wind choked in pomegranate-trees,
Rain rattled on lead roofs,
And stuttered along twisted conduit-pipes.
An eagle screamed out of the heavy sky,
And some one in the house screamed
"Ah, I knew that you were dead!"

So that was it:

Funeral chants,

And the icy cowls of buried monks;

Organs on iron midnights,
And long wax winding-sheets
Guttered from altar candles.
First this,
Then spitting blood.
Music quenched in blood,

Flights of arpeggios confused by blood,

Flute-showers of notes stung and arrested on a sharp chord,

Tangled in a web of blood.
"I cannot send you the manuscripts, as they are not yet finished.
I have been ill as a dog.

My illness has had a pernicious effect on the Preludes
Which you will receive God knows when."

He bore it.

Therefore, Winky, drink some milk

And leave the mouse until to-morrow.

There are no blood-coloured pomegranate flowers
Hurling their petals in at the open window,
But you can sit in my lap
And blink at a bunch of cinnamon-eyed coreopsis
While I pull your ears
In the manner which you find so infinitely agreeable.