Foggy metaphors

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

The first is by American poet Carl Sandburg published in 1916. The second by American-born English poet T.S. Eliot published in 1915. I can't wake to a foggy morning without hearing an imagined purr.