I Cried at Pity – Not at Pain

by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

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 suppose - 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 -