by Edward Thomas
- She had a name among the children;
- But no one loved though someone owned
- Her, locked her out of doors at bedtime
- And had he kittens dully drowned.
- In Spring, nevertheless, this cat
- Ate blackbirds, thrushes, nightingales,
- And birds of bright voice and plume and flight,
- As well as scraps from neighbours' pails.
- I loathed and hated her for this;
- One speckle on a thrush's breast
- Was worth a million such; and yet
- She lived long, till God gave her rest.