Monday, 9 September 2013

I measure every Grief I meet..

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 --

--- Emily Dickinson.

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