The Test. By Emily Dickinson

    I can wade grief,
    Whole pools of it, —
    I ‘m used to that.
    But the least push of joy
    Breaks up my feet,
    And I tip — drunken.
    Let no pebble smile,
    ‘T was the new liquor, —
    That was all!

    Power is only pain,
    Stranded, through discipline,
    Till weights will hang.
    Give balm to giants,
    And they ‘ll wilt, like men.
    Give Himmaleh, —
    They ‘ll carry him!