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 –
Emily Dickinson - 1830-1886
Besides the Autumn poets sing (131)
Besides the Autumn poets sing, A few prosaic days A little this side of the snow And that side of the Haze - A few incisive mornings - A few Ascetic eves - Gone - Mr Bryant's "Golden Rod" - And Mr Thomson's "sheaves." Still, is the bustle in the brook - Sealed are the spicy valves - Mesmeric fingers softly touch The eyes of many Elves - Perhaps a squirrel may remain - My sentiments to share - Grant me, Oh Lord, a sunny mind - Thy windy will to bear!