Читать книгу The Complete Poetry of Emily Dickinson - Эмили Дикинсон - Страница 137

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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!