35 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!
