Classic Poem

To-night I am alone in my own chair
Before the fire that good Janette has lit —
To-morrow, ere the sun is in the east,
I, who love life, will be all done with it.

And so the thoughts that I have long held down,
Of homely Devon and the mother-face,
Come surging back across my stricken soul,
And all these years of ink and town erase.

I know how tears will fill the mother-eyes,
How agony will chill her heart's soft beat,
When John takes up the news in Monday's mail
Of death, behind Paul Rober's, in Grub Street.

O God, is this reward for all her love?
That I should cause her grief, because a girl
Who has no heart, nor soul, nor any good,
Has set me at Lord Clare with her lip's curl?

I, who love life, and have my work to do,
And joy to take, and little gift of rhyme,
Will leave it all for honour, at one thrust,
Before St. Paul's can see the dear sun climb.

O honour, let me curse the shape you take —
And love! I see a lady smile next week;
What matters it to her if he is dead
Who but this morning kissed her glowing cheek?

So here am I in my familiar chair,
And, else Clare slip, I sit for my last time.
Good-night, thou dear, far Devon — mother-face —
Good-night, poor laughter, finery, and rhyme.