Emily Dickinson

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

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

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—


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



Poem Submitted: Thursday, January 1, 2004



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