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I can wade Grief
Emily Dickinson
252 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— ’Twas the New Liquor— That was all! Power is only Pain— Stranded, thro’ Discipline, Till Weights—will hang— Give Balm—to Giants— And they’ll wilt, like Men— Give Himmaleh— They’ll Carry—Him!
