Explore "Poor Devil!" by Stephen Vincent Benet on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Well, I was tired of life; the silly folk, / The tiresome noises, all the common things / I loved once, crushed me with an iron yoke.
I longed for the cool quiet and the dark, / Under the common sod where louts and kings / Lie down, serene, unheeding, careless, stark, / Never to rise or move or feel again, / Filled with the ecstasy of being dead.
I put the shining pistol to my head / And pulled the trigger hard -- I felt no pain, / No pain at all; the pistol had missed fire / I thought; then, looking at the floor, I saw / My huddled body lying there -- and awe / Swept over me. I trembled -- and looked up.
About me was -- not that, my heart's desire, / That small and dark abode of death and peace -- / But all from which I sought a vain release!
The sky, the people and the staring sun / Glared at me as before. I was undone.
My last state ten times worse than was my first.
Helpless I stood, befooled, betrayed, accursed, / Fettered to Life forever, horribly; / Caught in the meshes of Eternity, / No further doors to break or bars to burst!