The Lady and the Leopard 

She would lie on the bed with a leopard at her feet,
A leopard whose coat was as golden as the dawn,
Which itself was less golden than her smile was sweet,
Beckoning to me; it and her hand beckoned me on,

And so we would make love on the cushioned bed,
While the leopard lay and watched us at our mating,
With eyes of fiercest green and maw of maple-red,
Hot breath burning like the fire behind a grating.

I know now I was not, and never was, her only lover,
And some might say I had no right to expect faith
From someone who kept a leopard like a fur cover
Beside her, rejoicing in the beauty of its hot breath.

But in the end, the leopard, which was never tame,
And which was rarely fed, but toyed with and mocked,
Turned upon her with hunger, still shining like flame,
And ate her one evening while the door was locked.

It did only what a leopard was meant and was made for,
And covered her like a last lover, heat beyond her dreams.
The others never knew who turned the key in the door,
Or spent her last moments listening to her screams.