Classic Poem

Ha! you count it horrible that the murder was committed,
That the man was killed.

What ails you?
Is it the thought of what happened to the body,
Or the imagined terror of the victim?

And yet, much nearer home, and quite invisible,
With sharp knife of words, glances, and even kisses,
A slow still murder is proceeding;
And the victim has, not minutes, but years of torment.
Far more horrible than any murder of the body
Is this murder of the life.

Do you guess whom I mean?
Yes, it is you.