IX
WILL you not come: the unequal fever
Of Paris hold our lives for ever?
Were it not better to exceed
The avenging thought, the unmeaning deed,
Make one strong act at least ? How small,
How idiot our lives! These folk
That think they live—which dares at all
To act? The suicide that broke
His chain, and lies so waxen pale
In the Morgue to-day? Did he then fail ?
Ay, he was beaten. But to live,
Slink on through what the world can give,
That is a hound’s life too. For me,
The suicide stands grand and free
Besides these others. Was it fear
Drove him to stand upon the bank ?
The Paris lights shone far and drear;
The mist was down; the night was dank;
The Seine ran easily underneath ;
The air was chill : he knew the Seine
22