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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