Taken my dagger by its jade-green hilt,
Looked on the edge that was to drink my blood,
Loosened the shirt upon my breast, and there
Fumbled with grey unfeeling finger-tips
To find the proper rib, have placed the point
Sharp on the spot, have closed my eyes and laid
My left arm down beside me, clutched the dagger,—
And felt the end with thrice ten thousand pangs.
Yet always at the first fierce prick of death
Trembling I snatch the blue unwilling blade