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!