The Poems of Emily Dickinson, Variorum Edition, Franklin, 1998
Emily Dickinson Archive
I measure every Grief I meetWith 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 LightThat 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 affordsIn 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 -