The Poetry Corner

Ballade Of Suicide, A

By Gilbert Keith Chesterton

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.