Riddle, with Key
Unnatured by itself, it wants Nothing and for nothing; speaks little, takes Almost whatever it gets ... in almost an elegance of The dry and unobtrusive. Its defect is, Improbably, coldness. It can laugh, though, And many small bright things, always Changing, make its bigness: so Its surface is nacreous. In cleanness, too, a knife, Its talents include self-murder. Yet destroy it, it returns Stronger, though maimed. So, many times, But at last it will die indeed. The corpse Is without value. In this, As in its many lives, elegance, Seeming coldness, and claws, Love Is like a cat.