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by Emily Dickinson
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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