(20 September 1902 – 7 March 1971 / Kingston upon Hull)


I remember the Roman Emperor, one of the cruellest of them,
Who used to visit for pleasure his poor prisoners cramped in dungeons,
So then they would beg him for death, and then he would say:
Oh no, oh no, we are not yet friends enough.
He meant they were not yet friends enough for him to give them death.
So I fancy my Muse says, when I wish to die:
Oh no, Oh no, we are not yet friends enough,

And Virtue also says:
We are not yet friends enough.

How can a poet commit suicide
When he is still not listening properly to his Muse,
Or a lover of Virtue when
He is always putting her off until tomorrow?

Yet a time may come when a poet or any person
Having a long life behind him, pleasure and sorrow,
But feeble now and expensive to his country
And on the point of no longer being able to make a decision
May fancy Life comes to him with love and says:
We are friends enough now for me to give you death;
Then he may commit suicide, then
He may go.

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Comments (8)

I loved this poem until the last lines when she suggests that suicide is O.K. Suicide is a selfish thing and is never the answer. So many people around you suffer from your suicide. I have seen it more than once.
I think of how we do not wish to die until we have finished what we most want to do. This poem reminds me of the peace that must come after one has done something majestic with their life, and now can die in calm serenity. I do not like the way the poem looks; it is asymmetrically challenged and distracting, but the words are good.
Eerily familiar and so realistic of what many suicidal people feel, I think. Very telling of the depression many of us artists suffer. This is my original introduction to Miss Smith and I am intrigued and somewhat taken by her mind's charm.... That she nicknamed her childhood guardian the lioness is very telling of her and I think that I would much have enjoyed her company...
Secret of life and death The secret to life and death Is beyond mortal men of Earth For life on it's own is hell Neither the death a thing to tell Some wish to live and fail While some yearn to die but death snail In dark life is made unconsciously An ill will hand raise to end it willingly For men tend to think it simply An Angel shield it to grow wings For it in future to fly and sings Him above and beyond knows The cause and reasons we bows The date and season he choose To arrive and Depart the venue By his hand he authored the menu Why give him a unwanted hand And between soul and destiny to stand To terminate the life you can define
Makes one see death as a means of relief from lifes worries and uncertainties . Thanks for the post.
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