Page 36 - Poetry-Animals

Oh, truly ‘t is a gladsome thing to be a pussy-cat!
I’m truly glad, when I was born, I stopped to think of that!”

— John P. Lyons (St. Nicholas, 1889)

To Wilding, My Polo-Pony

My Wilding, I must leave thee!
Does word of parting grieve thee
As it grieves me, thy master, fond, indulgent,
Who see the softness in thine eye refulgent
And think a thousand thoughts are dreaming there
As like my thoughts as love is like love’s prayer?

How passing true thou art to me
Thy whinnyings apart to me
Make clear. Thy kissing breath upon my cheek
Is warm as June-time love, that needs not speak
To set the heart that beateth true a-bloom—
To stir the sense to quaff the day’s perfume.

Thou art a pretty fellow:
Thy brilliant chestnut-yellow
Shines like a changing silk; the driven snows
Have stained thy foot and striped thy Roman nose;
A-top the neck thy bristling mane doth curve,
And every muscle shown doth seem a nerve.

And every step or motion
Gives those who see a notion
Of Pegasus. Thou needest not his wings:
Thy dainty limbs were made for flights and flings;
And if thy feet do touch the earth, ‘tis done
As one would quickly kiss, ‘twixt fear and fun.

~ 34 ~