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.