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.