Griefs.

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.