In the attic of my house dwells a mouse.
The creaking noise he makes
Reminds me of a sculptor who carves
An image all night long.
Again when he dances about with his wife,
He whirls around with the vigor of a race horse.
Though the dirt and dust of the attic flutter down
On the paper as I write,
How should he know?
But I stop to think: I am living with mice. Let there be good food And a cozy nest for them. In the ceiling, let them, from time to time, Drill a hole and peep down on me.
