Well, I was tired of life; the silly folk, <br />The tiresome noises, all the common things <br />I loved once, crushed me with an iron yoke. <br />I longed for the cool quiet and the dark, <br />Under the common sod where louts and kings <br />Lie down, serene, unheeding, careless, stark, <br />Never to rise or move or feel again, <br />Filled with the ecstasy of being dead. . . . <br /> <br />I put the shining pistol to my head <br />And pulled the trigger hard -- I felt no pain, <br />No pain at all; the pistol had missed fire <br />I thought; then, looking at the floor, I saw <br />My huddled body lying there -- and awe <br />Swept over me. I trembled -- and looked up. <br />About me was -- not that, my heart's desire, <br />That small and dark abode of death and peace -- <br />But all from which I sought a vain release! <br />The sky, the people and the staring sun <br />Glared at me as before. I was undone. <br />My last state ten times worse than was my first. <br />Helpless I stood, befooled, betrayed, accursed, <br />Fettered to Life forever, horribly; <br />Caught in the meshes of Eternity, <br />No further doors to break or bars to burst!<br /><br />Stephen Vincent Benet<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poor-devil/
