I measure every grief I meet - Emily Dickinson

I measure every grief I meet  
With analytic 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,  
They would not rather die.  

I wonder if when years have piled —  
Some thousands—on the cause
Of early hurt, if such a lapse       
Could give them any pause; 

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,  
Of those that stand alone,
Still fascinated to presume       
That some are like my own.