By Pamela Douglas
Chimney is a far enjoyed kinfolk cat who has selected to inform her personal tale in poetic shape as just a cat can. She charts her existence from mischievous kittenhood to considerate adulthood within the corporation of 2 excellent IRISH SETTERS. Cat enthusiasts and vendors in every single place will understand lots of her methods and cat philosophy and people, who don't know cats good, can be shocked at their observational abilities!
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Additional info for Chimney and Co: The Poetic Story of A Family Cat
That way pulls the sea !.. And there leans dazzling Venus the Vertiginous with her melting arms ! * My eye, though it clings to the waves' supple destinies, And as if dreaming drinks at the eternal Water-carrier, Still keeps free a fixed room, capacious of worlds, And my avidity for surprises in depth No more than glimpses through the rocking transparency That woman's form of foam and gold and weed rolled On the sand and salt by the pounding of the surf. * ALBUM DE VEKS A N C I E N S Pourtant j e place aux cieux les ébats d'un esprit; Je vois dans leurs vapeurs des terres inconnues, Des déesses de fleurs feindre d'être des nues, Des puissances d'orage errer à demi nues, Et sur les roches d'air du soir qui s'assombrit, Telle divinité s'accoude.
Flinging me down bodily in these reeds, I am dying, O sapphire, of my own sad beauty! I can love nothing now but the bewitching water Where I forgot laughter and the rose of former times. How I rue your pure and fatal glitter, Fountain so softly surrounded by me, Where my eyes drank in, from a mortal azure, My own image crowned with moistened flowers! Ah, that image is vain, and tears are eternal! Through the blue of the woods and their fraternal arms A tender gleam of time ambiguous exists, Where from an ember of day is fashioned a betrothed Naked, on the pale space where the water draws m e .
Effeuille aux mânes du défunt Sur ce vide tombeau la funérale rose. Sois, ma lèvre, la rose effeuillant le baiser Q u i fasse un spectre cher lentement s'apaiser, Car la nuit parle à demi-voix, proche et lointaine, A u x calices pleins d'ombre et de sommeils légers. Mais la lune s'amuse aux myrtes allongés. Je t'adore, sous ces myrtes, ô l'incertaine Chair pour la solitude éclose tristement Q u i se mire dans le miroir au bois dormant. Je me délie en vain de ta présence douce, L'heure menteuse est molle aux membres sur la mousse Et d'un sombre délice enfle le vent profond.