The Star and the Garter

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