A CHILD’S NIGHTMARE

By Robert Graves

THROUGH long nursery nights he stood

By my bed unwearying,

Loomed gigantic, formless, queer,

Purring in my haunted ear

That same hideous nightmare thing,

Talking, as he lapped my blood,

In a voice cruel and flat,

Saying for ever, “Cat!… Cat!… Cat!…”

That one word was all he said,

That one word through all my sleep,

In monotonous mock despair.

Nonsense may be light as air,

But there’s Nonsense that can keep

Horror bristling round the head,

When a voice cruel and flat

Says for ever, “Cat!… Cat!… Cat!…”

He had faded, he was gone

Years ago with Nursery Land,

When he leapt on me again

From the clank of a night train,

Overpowered me foot and head,

Lapped my blood, while on and on

The old voice cruel and flat

Says for ever, “Cat!… Cat!… Cat!…”

Morphia drowsed, again I lay

In a crater by High Wood:

He was there with straddling legs,

Staring eyes as big as eggs,

Purring as he lapped my blood,

His black bulk darkening the day,

With a voice cruel and flat,

“Cat!… Cat!… Cat!… Cat!…” he said, “Cat!… Cat!…”

When I’m shot through heart and head,

And there’s no choice but to die,

The last word I’ll hear, no doubt,

Won’t be “Charge!” or “Bomb them out!”

Nor the stretcher-bearer’s cry,

“Let that body be, he’s dead!”

But a voice cruel and flat

Saying for ever, “Cat!… Cat!… Cat!”