Poems

IX. 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!