Poemsby Emily Dickinson

The Test

 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!