The Test

Emily Dickinson (1830–1886)

I CAN wade grief,Whole pools of it,—I'm used to that.But the least push of joyBreaks 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!