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!
-Emily Dickinson