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.