I measure every Grief I meetWith narrow, probing, Eyes;I wonder if It weighs...

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 Of early hurt -- if such a lapse
Could give them any Balm; Or would they go on aching still
Through Centuries above,
Enlightened to a larger Pain
By Contrast with the Love. The Grieved are many, I am told;
The reason deeper lies, --
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.