Classic Poem

Whatever she might know and kept concealed
Of the swan's visit singing in her bones —
The swift beak plunging crimson through her moans ...
The crash of wings ... the wound that never healed —
These were the drama and the dream that steeled
Her swan-split body to the undertones
Of golden agony and made her groans
An eager terrible secret to be sealed.

So when her moon was full and Leda came
Whiter than any moon and turned her sheets
Dyed in goat's milk to darkness with her flame,
Surely her ribs rang steel and hammer beats
And hair whirled like a torch writhing the name —
A ghost-white peacock stalking down dead streets!