THE MONK AND HIS WHITE CAT
(After an eighth- or early ninth-century Irish poem. Text and translation in Thesaurus Palæohibernicus.)
| Pangar, my white
cat, and I Silent ply our special crafts; Hunting mice his one pursuit, Mine to shoot keen spirit shafts. Rest, I love, all fame beyond, In the bond of some rare book; Yet white Pangar from his play Casts, my way, no jealous look. Thus alone within one cell Safe we dwell—not dull the tale— Since his ever favourite sport Each to court will never fail. Now a mouse, to swell his spoils, In his toils he spears with skill; Now a meaning deeply thought I have caught with startled thrill. Now his green full-shining gaze Darts its rays against the wall; Now my feebler glances mark Through the dark bright knowledge fall. Leaping up with joyful purr, In mouse fur his sharp claw sticks, Problems difficult and dear, With my spear I, too, transfix. [45] Crossing not each other's will, Diverse still, yet still allied, Following each his own lone ends, Constant friends we here abide. Pangar, master of his art, Plays his part in pranksome youth; While in age sedate I clear Shadows from the sphere of Truth. |