BEFORE
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, 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 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 Caesar and his fortunes--steady!
