Classic Poem

The black cat eyed me with a glassy stare,
Till my soul was but a mouse before the glare
Of those green lamps, a little bundle of fears
Held spell-bound, until pussy twitched his ears,
And turned to wash his back; and I was free.

But, what is this still glare, now fixed on me,
That, out of the black heart of midnight, burns
My soul up with cold fire — and never turns!