I measure every grief I meet

With analytic eyes;

I wonder if it weighs like mine

Or has an easier size . . .

 

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.

Emily Dickinson

 

Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind . . .

 

For if it see the rudest or gentlest sight,

The most sweet favour or deformed’st creature,

The mountain or the sea, the day or night,

The crow or dove, it shapes them to your feature:

Incapable of more, replete with you,

My most true mind thus makes mine eye untrue.

William Shakespeare, Sonnet CXIII