A BALLADE OF SUICIDE

     
     
           The gallows in my garden, people say,
     Is new and neat and adequately tall.
     I tie the noose on in a knowing way
     As one that knots his necktie for a ball;
     But just as all the neighbours—on the wall—
     Are drawing a long breath to shout “Hurray!”
     The strangest whim has seized me.... After all
     I think I will not hang myself to-day.
           To-morrow is the time I get my pay—My
     uncle's sword is hanging in the hall—
     I see a little cloud all pink and grey—
     Perhaps the rector's mother will not call—
     I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall
     That mushrooms could be cooked another way—
     I never read the works of Juvenal—
     I think I will not hang myself to-day.
           The world will have another washing day;
     The decadents decay; the pedants pall;
     And H.G. Wells has found that children play.
     And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall;
     Rationalists are growing rational—
     And through thick woods one finds a stream astray,
     So secret that the very sky seems small—
     I think I will not hang myself to-day.
           ENVOI
           Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal,
     The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way;
     Even to-day your royal head may fall—
     I think I will not hang myself to-day.