I cried at Pity -- not at Pain --

I cried at Pity -- not at Pain --

I heard a Woman say

"Poor Child" -- and something in her voice

Convicted me -- of me --

So long I fainted, to myself

It seemed the common way,

And Health, and Laughter, Curious things --

To look at, like a Toy --

To sometimes hear "Rich people" buy

And see the Parcel rolled --

And carried, I supposed -- to Heaven,

For children, made of Gold --

But not to touch, or wish for,

Or think of, with a sigh --

And so and so -- had been to me,

Had God willed differently.

I wish I knew that Woman's name --

So when she comes this way,

To hold my life, and hold my ears

For fear I hear her say

She's "sorry I am dead" -- again --

Just when the Grave and I --

Have sobbed ourselves almost to sleep,

Our only Lullaby --