| BEHOLD me waiting—waiting for the knife. | |
| A little while, and at a leap I storm | |
| The thick sweet mystery of chloroform, | |
| The drunken dark, the little death-in-life. | |
| The gods are good to me: I have no wife, | 5 |
| No innocent child, to think of as I near | |
| The fateful minute; nothing all-too dear | |
| Unmans me for my bout of passive strife. | |
| |
| Yet I am tremulous and a trifle sick, | |
| And, face to face with chance, I shrink a little: | 10 |
| My hopes are strong, my will is something weak. | |
| Here comes the basket? Thank you. I am ready | |
| But, gentlemen my porters, life is brittle: | |
| You carry Cæsar and his fortunes—Steady! | |
