Suicide

Staring corpselike at the ceiling,

See his harsh, unrazored features,

Ghastly brown against the pillow,

And his throat—so strangely bandaged!

Lack of work and lack of victuals,

A debauch of smuggled whisky,

And his children in the

Made the world so black a

That he plunged for a solution;

And, although his knife was edgeless,

He was sinking fast towards one,

When they came, and found, and saved him.

Stupid now with shame and sorrow,

In the night I hear him sobbing.

But sometimes he talks a little.

He has told me all his troubles.

In his broad face, tanned and bloodless,

White and wild his eyeballs glisten;

And his smile, occult and tragic,

Yet so slavish, makes you shudder!