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THE BLACK CAT
I put down my book and
Down three flights of stairs run I,
On the worn carpets of an old college house,
To make a pot of tea;
And through the back door window do I see
What never I have seen before
This sable kitten mewing piteously!
And lying on the desk upstairs,
In my nearly empty room,
In the failing light of an early summer’s day,
A volume of Edgar Allan Poe,
Lithographed,
Opened at The Black Cat,
With Poe himself pictured,
A black cat on his shoulder.
I open the door, and in this kitten jumps,
Frisky, unafraid and friendly.
She follows me quite nervelessly
Up each thinly covered flight of stairs,
Until my door is reached.
I enter my room and down I sit
And pour myself some tea.
I return to my book.
And then does this bold kitten,
Like a spirit cursed,
Jump lightly onto the table
And climb onto my shoulder
And there crouch and gently purr!
Can this be?
Her sable coat tickles me,
I am alone,
In my nearly empty room
With a book
And a pot of tea.
This visitation
May be thought
A Poeian phantasm;
Or lie;
But I say it was
As it is told;
This sable kitten
Was to me as real as it was bold.
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