I measure every Grief I meet

I measure every Grief I meet   

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 – 

I think this is a beautiful poem by Emily Dickenson. She begins by writing of the grief she sees in other people’s eyes. “I measure every Grief I meet with narrow, probing, eyes – I wonder if it weighs like mine – Or has an easier size.” She begins to question the depth of their grief, how long it has lasted, or if they would chose to die. Dickenson notes that some attempt to “renew their smile” but it only looks like “an imitation of a light that has so little oil.” In other words, they are struggling to be happy but they only have so much in them left to give. Next she questions the cause of their grief. Are they grieving death, want, cold? Emily Dickenson ends by saying that though she may not guess the kind of grief, there is a comfort in the “passing Calvary” and “of the cross.”

         In class we talked about five other poems that in my opinion, correlate with the poem “I measure every Grief I meet.” Each writer is talking about emptiness, sorrow, or sadness.