I measure every Grief I meet
With narrow, probing, eyes
I wonder if It weighs like Mine
Or has an Easier size
Or did it just begin
I could not tell the Date of Mine
It feels so old a pain
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
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