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 --