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,

  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.

~ Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

In loving memory of GWS.

Requiescat in Pace