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 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.