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

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I cried at Pity not at Pain