And I would ask of God above to grant one other thing:
Before old Death can grimly smile
And take me unawares,
A little time to rest awhile,
To think, and say my prayers.
"Gad!" I said. "You're a poet."
I liked the little trifle, not least because I suspected that the "one familiar friend" was myself. Everyone likes to be mentioned in a poem.
Doe beamed with pleasure that I had not spoken harshly of his off-spring.
"Glad you like it," he said.
"There's this," I suggested, "you talk about only wanting 'these little things' out of life. But it seems to me that you want quite a lot."
"A lot! By Jove, Ray," cried Doe excitedly, "it's only when I'm in my unworldly moods that I want so little as that. In my worse moments—that's nine-tenths of the day—I want yards more: Fame and Flattery and Power."
"Funny. Once, outside the baths, I had a sort of longing to—"
"Ray, I only tell you these things," interrupted Doe, now worked up, "but often I feel I've something in me that must come out—something strong—something forceful."
"I don't think I ever felt quite like that," said I, ruminating. "But I did once feel outside the baths—"