I measure every Grief I meet with narrow, probing, Eyes-
I wonder if it weighs like Mine or has an Easier size.
I wonder if They bore it long, or did it just begin.
I could not tell the Date of Mine, it feels so old a pain.
I wonder if it hurts to live and if They have to try-
and whether could They choose between it would not be - to die.
I note that Some gone patient long, at length, renew their smile...
an imitation of a Light that has so little Oil.
I wonder if when Years have piled, Some Thousands on the Harm-
That hurt them early, such a lapse could give them any Balm.
Or would they go on aching still through Centuries of Nerve-
enlightened to a larger Pain, in contrast with the Love.
The Grieved are many I am told, there is the various Cause -
Death is but one and comes but once and only nails the eyes.
There's Grief of Want and grief of Cold, a sort they call 'Despair'.
There's Banishment from native Eyes in Sight of Native Air.
and though I may not guess the kind Correctly yet to me.
A piercing Comfort it affords in passing Calvary-
To note the fashions of the Cross and how they're mostly worn.
Still fascinated to presume, that Some, are like My Own.
Emily Dickinson
