I leaned against the mantel, sick, sick, Thinking of my failure, looking into the abysm, Weak from the noon-day heat. A church bell sounded mournfully far away, I heard the cry of a baby, And the coughing of John Yarnell, Bed-ridden, feverish, feverish, dying, Then the violent voice of my wife: “Watch out, the potatoes are burning!” I smelled them … then there was irresistible disgust. I pulled the trigger … blackness … light … Unspeakable regret … fumbling for the world again. Too late! Thus I came here, With lungs for breathing … one cannot breathe here with lungs, Though one must breathe. … Of what use is it To rid one’s self of the world, When no soul may ever escape the eternal destiny of life?