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| Emily Dickinson | |
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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 — 
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