I cried at Pity - not at Pain - I heard a Woman say "Poor Child" - and something in her voice Convinced 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 suppose - 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.
Commenti