by Emily Dickinson    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 -