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!