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 @3not@1 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. Prince, I can hear the trump 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. |