(an excerpt)

 

That way look, my Infant, lo!

What a pretty baby-show!

See the Kitten on the wall,

Sporting with the leaves that fall,

Withered leaves—one—two—and three—

From the lofty elder-tree!

Through the calm and frosty air

Of this morning bright and fair,

Eddying round and round they sink

Softly, slowly: one might think,                           

From the motions that are made,

Every little leaf conveyed

Sylph or Faery hither tending,—

To this lower world descending,

Each invisible and mute,

In his wavering parachute.

—But the Kitten, how she starts,

Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts!

First at one, and then its fellow

Just as light and just as yellow;                          

There are many now—now one—

Now they stop and there are none.

What intenseness of desire

In her upward eye of fire!

With a tiger-leap half-way

Now she meets the coming prey,

Lets it go as fast, and then

Has it in her power again:

Now she works with three or four,

like an Indian conjurer;

Quick as he in feats of art,

far beyond in joy of heart.

 

 

This poem is in the public domain.