The cat

Come, my fine cat, against my loving heart;
Sheathe your sharp claws, and settle.
And let my eyes into your pupils dart
Where agate sparks with metal.

Now while my fingertips caress at leisure
Your head and wiry curves,
And that my hand's elated with the pleasure
Of your electric nerves,


I think about my woman — how her glances
Like yours, dear beast, deep-down
And cold, can cut and wound one as with lances;


Then, too, she has that vagrant
And subtle air of danger that makes fragrant
Her body, lithe and brown.

C. Baudelaire