Nay, look not down, nor lick thy dainty wrists,
For all thy wheezy asthma, and for all
Thy tail’s tip is nicked off, and though the fists
Of many a maid have given thee many a maul,
Still is thy fur as when the lists
In youth thou enteredst on glass-bottled wall.
Clinton Scollard writes tenderly of his lost
Grimalkin:
An Elegy on Peter, aged Twelve.
In vain the kindly call; in vain