Classic Poem

There is much talk and stir
About this puzzling case,
A stain, a scarf's torn fur
Found in a grimy place.

Detectives, hats pushed back,
Cough, turning and thrusting about,
Like dogs off scent and slack—
Weighing grave doubt and doubt.

Reporters chatting stand
On the stair, or swarm through the hall,
One with a long gray hand
Lifts a snap-shot from the wall.

The snow that the shoes track in
Turns brown on the carpeted floor,
A high bell pierces the din,
A heavy hand rattles the door.

And above, on a narrow bed,
Where the women shudder and weep,
A girl with a fair young head
Is sleeping an old old sleep.