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 —

Analysis, meaning and summary of the poem by

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Do you have any comments, criticism, paraphrasis or analysis of this poem that you feel would assist other visitors in understanding the meaning or the theme of this poem better? If they are accepted, they will be added to this page of American Poems. Together we can build a wealth of information, but it will take some discipline and determination.