Emily Dickinson: an epileptic

c.1862.230 (561)
From Emily Dickinson's Poems by Thomas H. Johnson

I measure every Grief I meet

with narrow, probing, Eyes-

I wonder if It weighs like Mine-

Or has 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 it if 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--

end

I feel for her as I feel my pains when It attacks.

I would have loved to meet Emily...an epileptic maybe, but definitely, a poet.

Emily Dickinson's Secret Life