Griefs

IMEASURE 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.