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, Could They Choose 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 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, Of Those That Stand Alone, Still Fascinated To Presume That Some Are Like My Own.