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I Cried at Pity’€”not at Pain

588
 
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’—
Other works by Emily Dickinson ...



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