Thursday, November 5, 2015



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

5 comments:

  1. Losing friends is one curse of our own aging.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. "Grief is the price we pay for love."

      ~ Queen Elizabeth, II

      Two sides of the same coin, AOW. To resent the pain that comes with loss would be to resent Life, itself.

      Delete
  2. Victory comes late,
    And is held low to freezing lips
    Too rapt with frost
    To take it.

    How sweet it would have tasted,
    Just a drop!
    Was God so economical?
    His table’s spread too high for us
    Unless we dine on tip-toe.

    Crumbs fit such little mouths,
    Cherries suit robins;
    The eagle’s golden breakfast
    Strangles them.

    God keeps his oath to sparrows,
    Who of little love
    Know how to starve!


    ~ Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

    ReplyDelete

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