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.