A Rabbit as King of the Ghosts, Wallace Stevens

There was the cat slopping its milk all day, 
Fat cat, red tongue, green mind, white milk 
And August the most peaceful month. 

To be, in the grass, in the peacefullest time, 
Without that monument of cat, 
The cat forgotten in 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. It comes of itself; 
And east rushes west and west rushes down, 
No matter. The grass is full 

And full of yourself. The trees around are for you, 
The whole of the wideness of night is for you, 
A self that touches all edges, 

You become a self that fills the four corners of night. 
The red cat hides away in the fur-light 
And there you are humped high, humped up, 

You are humped higher and higher, black as stone— 
You sit with your head like a carving in space 
And the little green cat is a bug in the grass. 

A Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock, Wallace Stevens

The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches Tigers
In red weather.