Tag Archives: 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 aContinue reading “I Cried at Pity – Not at Pain”