Behold me waiting-waiting for the knife. <br />A little while, and at a leap I storm <br />The thick, sweet mystery of chloroform, <br />The drunken dark, the little death-in-life. <br />The gods are good to me: I have no wife, <br />No innocent child, to think of as I near <br />The fateful minute; nothing all-too dear <br />Unmans me for my bout of passive strife. <br />Yet am I tremulous and a trifle sick, <br />And, face to face with chance, I shrink a little: <br />My hopes are strong, my will is something weak. <br />Here comes the basket? Thank you. I am ready. <br />But, gentlemen my porters, life is brittle: <br />You carry Caesar and his fortunes-steady!<br /><br />William Ernest Henley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/before-34/
