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!