The Panther

His gaze, going past those bars, has got so misted
With tiredness, it can take in nothing more
He feels as though a thousand bars existed
And no more world beyond them than before
Those supply powerful paddings, turning there
In tiniest circles, well might be
The dance of forces round a centre where
Some mighty will stands paralyticly
Just now and then the pupils' noiseless shutter
Is lifted. — Then an image will indart
Down through the limbs' intensive stillness flutter
And end its being in the heart