Carol Smith Williams

    Carol Smith Williams

    I Measure Every Grief I Meet

      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 –
        By Emily Dickinson

      Carol Smith Williams, passed away Nov. 2, 2016
      No other information available
      Resource:Listed in Gah-Yah-Tont Oct., 2018 edition

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