A Ballad 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

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