Classic Poem

Whose peacock cry bereaves the myrtle groves?
(One might unveil a murder could one see
The thing one doesn't hear again? Did love's
Staccato knife strike forth such agony?
A running echo answers trembling and moves
As though affrighted to record and be
The instrument to bugle soft reproofs;
Then silence goes ahead more silently
And stillness dwells among the shrivelled leaves,
Folding itself round every face that grieves.
Not even ghosts can find their memories,
Nor bloody knives, prolonged to war with peace,
Pierce or resist the kingdom of the air,
Or make a lash close over its long stare.