This poem was included in the original 1915 edition.
I LEANED against the mantel, sick, sick, Thinking of my failure, looking into the abysm, Weak from the noon-day heat. A church bell sounded mournfully far away, I heard the cry of a baby, And the coughing of John Yarnell, Bed-ridden, feverish, feverish, dying, Then the violent voice of my wife: "Watch out, the potatoes are burning!" I smelled them . . . then there was irresistible disgust. I pulled the trigger . . . blackness . . . light . . . Unspeakable regret . . . fumbling for the world again. Too late! Thus I came here, With lungs for breathing . . . one cannot breathe here with lungs, Though one must breathe Of what use is it To rid one's self of the world, When no soul may ever escape the eternal destiny of life?
, 3 months ago
A moving portrayal of a man who struggles at the edge of life before committing suicide. I love the juxtaposition of Harold's sitting by the mantel, and his wife announcing that "potatoes are burning." This man is on the verge of committing himself to death and yet the every day, mundane things are still stressing him. Then, after the suicide he realizes that even death of body couldn't help him escape the living that occurs beyond the physical world.
Masters was so often writing ahead of his time.
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matt , 3 months ago
what the fuck