White, clean white, paper,
On the mat, a dirty mat,
And Plato a thinking cat,
Impatient for another supper,
Points out the hand-writing,
Familiar since that year
Of that silently shed tear
On my father life-departing.
“Plato”, I said, “So long ago,
And still life’s river flows
In spring suns and winter snows,
True love will always grow.”
“Let’s have a little meal”,
Says Plato, “Just you and I,
As we watch the summer die,
And that love forever seal.”