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!