The speaker remembers a moment when a woman's pitying tone — saying "Poor Child" — struck her like a verdict. She didn't cry from physical pain but from the shame of being seen as pitiable. That voice convicted her of her own lowly self, and she "fainted" for so long that numbness became her normal state. Health and laughter seemed like distant toys she could only look at, never play with. She imagines rich people buying parcels of happiness for golden children, while she is excluded—even from wishing for them. The final stanza reveals her dread of that woman's pity following her beyond death, apologizing for her being dead and disturbing the only peace she has: sobbing herself to sleep with the grave. The mood is one of quiet devastation, a life so diminished by class and pity that even death offers no escape from humiliation.
I cried at Pity -- not at Pain -- — Summary
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 --