Before

Behold me waiting—waiting for the knife.A little while, and at a leap I stormThe thick, sweet mystery of chloroform,The drunken dark, the little death-in-life.The gods are good to me: I have no wife,No innocent child, to think of as I nearThe fateful minute; nothing all-too dearUnmans me for my bout of passive strife.Yet am I tremulous and a trifle sick,And, face to face with chance, I shrink a little: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 Cesar and his fortunes—steady!