A cold wind is whistling under my door,
And the city's naked wail,
sounds pale with the tune.
I see an alley cat crossing fast,
A silent shadow on the roadside path,
And faint I  hear on the wind in the night,
Thousands of typists on the internet.
Instead of wishing for the moment to slow,
To bear me away and watch me go,
I have found your poem so beautiful,
That I forget the cat crossing the path,
To the tune of typists on the internet.