The pearly throat of that peacock age was torn
In summer and its shriek yet grows, screaming
Unheard in all our days and deeds, like static
From a falling star, unseeming as the dust
Of space, yet crying murder as it bleeds.
So the voiceless moon imparting gravity
To frivolous tides roils the world unseen
But never hides its light nor ever slows.

Slain then the nightingale and the steed,
The garden wall then fallen, the enchanted
Wood a tiring room for weary death
And summer’s lawn sown to widows’ weed.
For winter came in August killing fruit and seed.
In that broken season forever died the rose.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 4 Number 2, on page 46
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