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Cat Poetry

    The Monk & His Cat Pangur

    I and my white Pangur
    have each his special art:
    His mind is set on hunting mice,
    mine is upon my special craft.

    I love to rest - better than any fame!
    With close study at my little book;
    White Pangur does not envy me:
    He loves his childish play.

    When in our house we two are all alone...
    A tale without tedium.
    We have - sport never-ending!
    Something to exercise our wit.

    At times by feats of derring-do
    a mouse sticks in his net,
    while into my net there drops
    a difficult problem of hard meaning.

    He points his full shining eye
    against the fence of the wall:
    I point my clear though feeble eye
    against the keenness of science.

    He rejoices with quick leaps
    when in his sharp claw sticks a mouse;
    I, too, rejoice when I have grasped
    a problem difficult and dearly loved.

    Though we are thus at all time,
    neither hinders the other,
    each of us pleased with his own art
    amuses himself alone.

    He is master of the work
    which every day he does:
    While I am at my own work
    to bring difficulty to clearness.

    Eighth Century Irish Monk

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