Emily Dickinson

(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886 / Amherst / Massachusetts)

I Cried At Pity—not At Pain - Poem by Emily Dickinson


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—

Comments about I Cried At Pity—not At Pain by Emily Dickinson

There is no comment submitted by members..

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Read poems about / on: sorry, woman, laughter, sometimes, children, child, sleep, fear, people, heaven, pain, god, women

Poem Submitted: Thursday, January 1, 2004

[Hata Bildir]