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!