Written 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 –
All that's worth Remembering 