The rabbit in my secret garden

The difficulty to think at the end of day,

When the shapeless shadow covers the sun

And nothing is left except light on your fur —

 

There was the cat slopping its milk all day,

Fat cat, red tongue, green mind, white milk

And July the most peaceful month,

 

To be, in the grass, in the peacefullest time,

Without thought of the cat,

The cat forgotten on the moon;

 

And to feel that the light is a rabbit-light,

In which everything is meant for you

And nothing need be explained:

 

Then there is nothing to think of.

 

-- Wallace Stevens

Done