THE PANTHER Jardin des Plantes, Paris His gaze has been so worn by the procession Of bars that it no longer makes a bond. Around, a thousand bars seem to be flashing, And in their flashing show no world beyond. The lissom steps which round out and re-enter That tightest circuit of their turning drill Are like a dance of strength about a center Wherein there stands benumbed a mighty will. Only from time to time the pupil's shutter Will draw apart: an image enters then, To travel through the tautened body's utter Stillness -- and in the heart to end.