What the Tramp Said
Why should one live when living is a pain ? I have not seen a flower had any scent, Nor heard a bird sing once. The very rain Seems dirty, and the clouds, all soiled and rent, Toil sulkily across the black, old sky, And all the weary stars go moping by, They care not whither, sea, or mount, or plain, All's one — and what one gets is never gain.
The sun scowled yesterday a weary while. It used to beam. The moon last night was grim With cynic gaze and frosty, sullen smile. And once I loved to gaze while from the rim Of some great mountain she would look and gild The rustling cornfield. Now she is filled With bitterness and rancour sour as bile, And blasts the world's surface every mile.
There is no more sunlight : all the weary world Seems steeped in shadow, and for evermore The heavy clouds will press till I am hurled Back to the heart of things. O, it is sore And sad and sorry to be living : let me die And rest while all eternity lolls by, Where the fierce winds of God are closely furled Ten million miles away from this damned world.