Page:Emily Dickinson Poems - third series (1896).djvu/62

 Or would they go on aching still

Through centuries above,

Enlightened to a larger pain

By contrast with the love.

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,—

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,

Of those that stand alone,

Still fascinated to presume

That some are like my own.