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,                                     5
  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,                                           10
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                                      15
  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.                                       20
 
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,—                 25
  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                                                30
A piercing comfort it affords   
  In passing Calvary,   
 
To note the fashions of the cross,   
  Of those that stand alone,   
Still fascinated to presume                                        35
  That some are like my own.