The poet Emily Dickerson wrote
I measure every grief I meet
With narrow, probing, eyes
I wonder if it weighs like mine
Or has an easier size
An air of melaincholia is surrounding me. This black bile is starting to get thick. Robert Burton once wrote "he that increaseth wisdom, increaseth sorrow", wow that is deep, me thinks. Or did he borrow this from the Bible, Ecclesiastes 1:18 to be exact "For much wisdom comes much sorrow; the more knowledge, the more grief". Talk about the Tree of Knowledge from the Garden of Eden.
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
It would not be – to die
I note that some – gone patient long
At length, renew their smile
An imitation of a light
That has so little oil
I wonder if when years have piled
Some thousands – on the harm
That hurt them early – such a lapse
Could give them any balm
Or would they go on aching still
Through centuries of nerve
Enlightened to a larger pain
In contrast with the love
The grieved – are many – I am told
There is the various cause
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
And how they're mostly worn
Still fascinated to presume
That some – are like my own
When I was young and full of folly, melancholy was but a thing. Now it embraces. Oh so close.
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