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