Too Much. By Emily Dickinson

    I should have been too glad, I see,
    Too lifted for the scant degree
    Of life’s penurious round;
    My little circuit would have shamed
    This new circumference, have blamed
    The homelier time behind.

    I should have been too saved, I see,
    Too rescued; fear too dim to me
    That I could spell the prayer
    I knew so perfect yesterday, —
    That scalding one, “Sabachthani,”
    Recited fluent here.

    Earth would have been too much, I see,
    And heaven not enough for me;
    I should have had the joy
    Without the fear to justify, —
    The palm without the Calvary;
    So, Saviour, crucify.

    Defeat whets victory, they say;
    The reefs in old Gethsemane
    Endear the shore beyond.
    ‘T is beggars banquets best define;
    ‘T is thirsting vitalizes wine, —
    Faith faints to understand.