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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—
Added: 2 Sep 2002 | Last Read: 7 Jun 2025 5:08 PM | Viewed: 7929 times
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Emily Dickinson
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