Grief: Emily Dickinson

I was reading some poetry this morning by one of my favorite poets, Emily Dickinson.  She was such a wonderful writer -- her thoughts so often echo my own.  I hope you have a great week, everyone. ~CJ

I Measure Every Grief

by Emily Dickinson

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, if they chose 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 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. 

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do. And by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale