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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo
Colección 9, Poema 35
XXXIII.
GRIEFS.
I
measure
every
grief
I
meet
With
careful
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
couldn't
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,
if
they
could
choose,
They
would
rather
die.
I
wonder
if
when
years
have
passed
—
Thousands
—
on
the
cause
Of
early
hurt,
if
such
a
lapse
Could
give
them
any
pause;
Or
would
they
keep
aching
still
Through
centuries
above,
Enlightened
to
a
bigger
pain
By
contrast
with
love.
The
grieved
are
many,
I
am
told;
The
reason
deeper
lies,
—
Death
is
but
one
and
comes
once,
And
only
closes
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
sharp
comfort
it
gives
In
passing
Calvary,
To
note
the
types
of
the
cross,
Of
those
that
stand
alone,
Still
fascinated
to
think
That
some
are
like
my
own.
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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo — B1 Inglés | Cuentana