I Measure Every Grief I Meet (561)

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--