I heard a bird sing in the dark of December. A magical thing. And sweet to remember. We are nearer to Spring than we were in September. I heard a bird sing in the dark of December.
I sometimes think the Pussy-Willows greyAre Angel Kittens who have lost their way,And every Bulrush on the river bankA Cat-Tail from some lovely Cat astray.
At evening when the lamp is lit,The tired Human People sitAnd doze, or turn with solemn looksThe speckled pages of their books.Then I, the Dangerous Kitten, prowlAnd in the Shadows softly growl,And roam about the farthest floorWhere Kitten never trod before.And, crouching in the jungle damp,I watch the Human Hunter’s camp,Ready to spring with fearful roarAs soon as I shall hear them snore.And then with stealthy tread I crawlInto the dark and trackless hall,Where 'neath the Hat-tree's shadows deepUmbrellas fold their wings and sleep.A cuckoo calls — and to their densThe People climb like frightened hens,And I'm alone — and no one caresIn Darkest Africa — downstairs.
When I grow up I mean to beA Lion large and fierce to see.I'll mew so loud that Cook in fright Will give me all the cream in sight.And anyone who dares to say'Poor Puss' to me will rue the day.Then having swallowed him I'll creepInto the Guest Room Bed to sleep.