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Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson


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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 piled
Some thousandson 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.



Emily Elizabeth Dickinson


Emily Elizabeth Dickinson's other poems:
  1. Belshazzar Had a Letter
  2. Psalm of the Day
  3. Our Share of Night to Bear
  4. The Wife
  5. New Feet within My Garden Go


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