In my brain there walks about,As though he were in his own home,A lovely cat, strong, sweet, charming.When he mews, one scarcely hears him,
His tone is so discreet and soft;But purring or growling, his voiceIs always deep and rich;That is his charm and secret.
That voice forms into drops, tricklesInto the depths of my being,Fills me like harmonious verseAnd gladdens me like a philtre.
It lulls to sleep the sharpest pains,Contains all ecstasies;To say the longest sentences,It has no need of words,
No, there's no bow that plays uponMy heart, that perfect instrument,And makes its most vibrant chordSing more gloriously
Than your voice, mysterious cat,Seraphic cat, singular cat,In whom, as in angels, all isAs subtle as harmonious!
From his brown and yellow furComes such sweet fragrance that one nightI was perfumed with it becauseI caressed him once, once only.
A familiar figure in the place,He presides, judges, inspiresEverything within his province;Perhaps he is a fay, a god?
When my gaze, drawn as by a magnet,Turns in a docile wayToward that cat whom I love,And when I look within myself,
I see with amazementThe fire of his pale pupils,Clear signal-lights, living opals,That contemplate me fixedly.
