THE MONK AND HIS PET CAT

I and my white Pangur Have each his special art: His mind is set on hunting mice, Mine is upon my special craft. I love to rest—better than any fame!— With close study at my little book: White Pangur does not envy me: He loves his childish play. When in our house we two are all alone— A tale without tedium! We have—sport never-ending! Something to exercise our wit. At times by feats of derring-do A mouse sticks in his net, While into my net there drops A difficult problem of hard meaning. He points his full shining eye Against the fence of the wall: I point my clear though feeble eye Against the keenness of science. He rejoices with quick leaps When in his sharp claw sticks a mouse: I too rejoice when I have grasped A problem difficult and dearly loved. Though we are thus at all times, Neither hinders the other, Each of us pleased with his own art Amuses himself alone. He is a master of the work Which every day he does: While I am at my own work To bring difficulty to clearness.