EMILY MONDAY OF HOLY WEEK

561

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 (of moments) on the Harm that hurt them early —

(If) 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 —