588 <br /> <br />I cried at Pity—not at Pain— <br />I heard a Woman say <br />"Poor Child"—and something in her voice <br />Convicted me—of me— <br /> <br />So long I fainted, to myself <br />It seemed the common way, <br />And Health, and Laughter, Curious things— <br />To look at, like a Toy— <br /> <br />To sometimes hear "Rich people" buy <br />And see the Parcel rolled— <br />And carried, I supposed—to Heaven, <br />For children, made of Gold— <br /> <br />But not to touch, or wish for, <br />Or think of, with a sigh— <br />And so and so—had been to me, <br />Had God willed differently. <br /> <br />I wish I knew that Woman's name— <br />So when she comes this way, <br />To hold my life, and hold my ears <br />For fear I hear her say <br /> <br />She's "sorry I am dead"—again— <br />Just when the Grave and I— <br />Have sobbed ourselves almost to sleep, <br />Our only Lullaby—<br /><br />Emily Dickinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-cried-at-pity-not-at-pain/
