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 workhouse Made the world so black a riddle 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!
