The Panther Jardin des Plantes, Paris 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 supple, powerful paddings, turning there in tiniest of 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. (R.M. Rilke)