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.