Of skylarks and June roses bygone poets sing.
Yet alas! Seldom pen sweet lines to such as thee.
O! How I yearn from harshest winds to set you free
If such futile vain longings could perchance take wing.

Poor darling stray! Green eyes stare pleading into mine.
O! My heart aches to stroke ebony silken fur
And cuddling you revel in thy low grateful purr.
Yet how can I to fate this fondest wish resign?

Raven Miriam! Daughter o' plumy waving tail
Dancing freely, arms outstretched in moss laden air,
For three baby sisters and wee brother doth care;
Showering them all in tender love without fail.

Four growing babes frolicking with Miriam so dear.
One glossiest raven, proud miniature of thee;
Grey tabbies—two mittened—comprise those other three.
Bringing to lonely bleak days a ray of cheer.

One balmy afternoon I searched but found I none.
To my frail despairing call, silence echoing
While all around me harsh November winds blowing
Taunting in cruelest mockery—all now are gone!

One morn you came—yes! Only you in dreary rain.
With glad heart and bountiful meal I begged thee cleave.
Poor onyx stray! Where is thy fam'ly? Why must thou leave?
Helpless, I watch you cross the busy road—again.

**~Hilda~