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“Lying asleep between the strokes of night
I saw my love lean over my sad bed,
Pale as the duskiest lily's leaf or head,
Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite,
Too wan for blushing and too warm for white,
But perfect-coloured without white or red.
And her lips opened amorously, and said--
I wist not what, saving one word--Delight.

And all her face was honey to my mouth,
And all her body pasture to my eyes;
The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire,
The quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south,
The bright light feet, the splendid supple thighs
And glittering eyelids of my soul's desire.”
― Algernon Charles Swinburne

“Del tuo timido gatto
che scendeva la scala
dell'orto la mattina
con la sua ombra fina
lungo le terrecotte
che cosa è rimasto? Nulla
fuor che l'impronta impressa
dalle sue zampe nella
gettata di cemento
dove annusava incerto

Fra le tue grida : "Via,
via di lì, stupidino!"
Era luglio, era aperto
il cielo. Pensai: "Certo
rimarrà sempre un segno."
Ora il cemento è pietra
alle piogge d'ottobre.
Ostinate lo coprono
le foglie senza forma.
Toglile e potrai leggere

l'orma di quegli unghioli.”
― Franco Fortini

“The Feline Chill by Stewart Stafford

The feline parries morning's biting kiss
That turbulently gooses the hedgerows
The cat barometer turns back inside
To relax and preen by the hearth.

Gusts howl at the blasé abandonment
Our whiskered friend deaf to protests
Domestic tiger curled in busy routine
Single-minded creature of no reflection.

The storm's symphony rises and fades
To twitching limbs of galloping kitty dreams
Elements vanquished in slumbering tricks
Puss goes and stands by the door once more.

© Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford