Your muscles, tendons, bones, joints,
nerves did squirm
where falsely from distress’ deep abyss
madness observes the fall that is
half-wished,
but by the short hairs I had you quite
firm;
said: ‘What? You cannot? Or – you’ve lost
your nerve?
Don’t Plato’s glaciers shame you so you
quake?
Walk on! A granite highroad shall I make
the wire!’ You toed with grace along the
curve.
When vertigo sucked down like some black
hole,
I gave you infinite series for a pole,
e, π,
Maclaurin, or binomium:
Niagara, beneath the plank-bridge sway,
the world-course thundered downwards
plumed with spray –
I gave you, Blondin, the equilibrium.
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