THE SUICIDE

DID these night-hung houses,Of quiet, starlit stone,Breathe not a whisper—'Stay,Thou unhappy one;Whither so secret away?'Sighed not the unfriending wind,Chill with nocturnal dew,'Pause, pause, in thy haste,O thou distraught! I tooTryst with the Atlantic waste.'Steep fell the drowsy street;In slumber the world was blind:Breathed not one midnight flowerPeace in thy broken mind?—'Brief, yet sweet, is life's hour.'Syllabled thy last tide—By as dark moon stirred,And doomed to forlorn unrest—Not one compassionate word?...'Cold is this breast.'

DID these night-hung houses,Of quiet, starlit stone,Breathe not a whisper—'Stay,Thou unhappy one;Whither so secret away?'

DID these night-hung houses,

Of quiet, starlit stone,

Breathe not a whisper—'Stay,

Thou unhappy one;

Whither so secret away?'

Sighed not the unfriending wind,Chill with nocturnal dew,'Pause, pause, in thy haste,O thou distraught! I tooTryst with the Atlantic waste.'

Sighed not the unfriending wind,

Chill with nocturnal dew,

'Pause, pause, in thy haste,

O thou distraught! I too

Tryst with the Atlantic waste.'

Steep fell the drowsy street;In slumber the world was blind:Breathed not one midnight flowerPeace in thy broken mind?—'Brief, yet sweet, is life's hour.'

Steep fell the drowsy street;

In slumber the world was blind:

Breathed not one midnight flower

Peace in thy broken mind?—

'Brief, yet sweet, is life's hour.'

Syllabled thy last tide—By as dark moon stirred,And doomed to forlorn unrest—Not one compassionate word?...'Cold is this breast.'

Syllabled thy last tide—

By as dark moon stirred,

And doomed to forlorn unrest—

Not one compassionate word?...

'Cold is this breast.'

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