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 — 
It would not be — to die —

I note that Some — gone patient long — 
At length, renew their smile —
An imitation of a Light 
That has so little Oil —

I wonder if when Years have piled — 
Some Thousands — on the Harm — 
That hurt them early — such a lapse
Could give them any Balm — 

Or would they go on aching still
Through Centuries of Nerve — 
Enlightened to a larger Pain — 
In Contrast with the Love —

The Grieved — are many — I am told —
There is the various Cause —
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 — 
And how they're mostly worn — 
Still fascinated to presume
That Some — are like My Own —