An Old Friend

Today on the train, admits the drudgery of packing into the crowd and trying not to fall asleep from exhaustion, I flipped through a poetry book I had on me... not really reading, just mindlessly turning pages.  I came across this poem by Emily Dickinson. I had forgotten how much I love it.

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 pilled-

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 on 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