Emily Dickinson Poems

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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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