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Poem by Edward Thomas
She had a name among the children; But no one loved though someone owned Her, locked her out of doors at bedtime And had her kittens duly drowned. In Spring, nevertheless, this cat Ate blackbirds, thrushes, nightingales, And birds of bright voice and plume and flight, As well as scraps from neighbours’ pails. I loathed and hated her for this; One speckle on a thrush’s breast Was worth a million such; and yet She lived long, till God gave her rest.
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