A Poem to a Cat

Have the clouds no mercy,
The heavens no heart of size
Enough to make him well again
And make life his prize?
  For his cries of woe
  Began the flow,
Lament from my eyes.

Have the men no pow'r,
The machines no touch to heal
The sick , the wailing, the pain'd one,
And pluck for him a flower
  Born of the flora
  In the form of
A less-saddened hour.