Classic Poem

The wing of my spirit is broken,
My day-star of hope has declined;
For a month not a word have I spoken
That 's either polite or refined.
My mind's like the sky in bad weather,
When mist-clouds around us are curled:
And, viewing myself altogether,
I'm the veriest wretch in the world!

I wander about like a vagrant —
I spend half my time in the street;
My conduct's improper and flagrant,
For I quarrel with all that I meet.
My dress, too, is wholly neglected,
My hat I pull over my brow,
And I look like a fellow suspected
Of wishing to kick up a row.

In vain I 've endeavored to borrow
From friends " some material aid " —
For my landlady views me with sorrow,
When she thinks of the bill that's unpaid.
Abroad my acquaintances flout me,
The ladies cry, " Bless us, look there! "
And the little boys cluster about me,
And sensible citizens stare.

One says, " He 's a victim to cupid; "
Another, " His conduct's too bad; "
A third, " He is awfully stupid; "
A fourth, " He is perfectly mad! " —
And then I am watched like a bandit,
Mankind with me all are at strife:
By heaven no longer I'll stand it,
But quick put an end to my life!

I've thought of the means — yet I shudder
At dagger or ratsbane or rope;
At drawing with lancet my blood, or
At razor without any soap!
Suppose I should fall in a duel,
And thus leave the stage with eclat?
But to die with a bullet is cruel —
Besides 't would be breaking the law!

Yet one way remains: to the river
I 'll fly from the goadings of care! —
But drown? — oh, the thought makes me shiver —
A terrible death, I declare!
Ah, no! — I 'll once more see my Kitty,
And parry her cruel disdain —
Beseech her to take me in pity,
And never dismiss me again.