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-