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

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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.

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