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 lapseCould give them any Balm – Or would they go on aching stillThrough 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 meA piercing Comfort it affordsIn passing Calvary – To note the fashions – of the Cross – And how they're mostly worn – Still fascinated to presumeThat Some – are like my own –