Emily Dickenson

I measure every grief I meet

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 - to die.

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 the 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.

- Emily Dickenson



Good Morning Midnight

Good Morning - Midnight-
I'm coming Home-
Day - got tired of Me-
How could I - of him?

Sunshine was a sweet place-
I liked to stay - But Morn
didn't want me - now -
So-Goodnight - day!

I can look - can't I-
when the East is red?
The hills - have a way - then-
That puts the heart - aboard

You are not- so fair -midnight
I chose - day
But please - take a little girl
He turned away!

- Emily Dickenson