Poems — A Ballade of Suicide

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.