I Measure Every Grief I Meet by Emily Dickenson
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.