A panther, perilous and white, The moonlight runs at my left hand. Soft on the rock and sure on sand, It threads the mountain-groves of night. No pebble moved; it stirred no rush, When it paused beside the pool and drank. Only ... I see a shining flank Creeping beyond the laurel-brush. Some fated moment it will spring In terrible silver on its prey. Oh, small reward and meager stay! The heart is such a little thing. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE PICTURE (VENUS RECLINING) by EZRA POUND ON DEATH, WITHOUT EXAGGERATION by WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA THE MAKING OF MAN by JOHN WHITE CHADWICK THE TIDE OF FAITH by MARY ANN EVANS HYMN: FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY: 2 by REGINALD HEBER EVENING SONG OF THE TYROLESE PEASANTS by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS |