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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