Emily Dickinson

I Cried At Pity not At Pain

poem 588

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

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