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 —