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, we supposed—to Heaven,
For children, made of Gold—
But not to touch, or wish for,
Or think of, with sigh—
And so and so—had been to us,
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—
F394 (1892) 588
For those of us who can't bear it when someone feels sorry for us, this poem is bad news. The misery continues even in the grave. Worse: the grave feels it too.
The poem's speaker is a dead girl in a grave. She recalls how "a Woman" recently stopped by the grave and expressed pity. This sparked a new self awareness in the child, "Convinced" her of the reality of her deathly existence. She thinks about how death and the pain she'd born while alive now "seemed the common way," while "Health, and Laughter" were "curious things," something to look at like toys.
She also remembers how wealthy people would buy expensive items wrapped so beautifully that they must be destined for heavenly children. But such finery was never for the likes of her. She could never even wish for such things or even sigh sadly that "God willed differently." This is a bit of harshness, implying that God willed the child's life to be full of pain, and willed her an early death; meanwhile, He seemingly willed a life of golden plenty to the children of the wealthy.
|Haunted grave of 6-year-old Gracie Watson: Visitors to Gracie's|
tomb have reported hearing sobbing or seeing Gracie's statue cry.
Dickinson addresses several issues in this little tear jerker. First, what seems the unfairness of life can be attributed to God's will. That's mentioned in passing, but comes through loud and clear. Second, we should attend to the living child rather than spout pitying remarks at the grave. Is there a lonely child, a child in pain, a poor child? Then visit that child, bring a present, help relieve any pain. Just don't go caterwauling over the grave. That brings us to the other lesson: pity is worse than pain.
It may be the Woman who makes repeated visits to the grave is the child's mother or another close relative. If so, Dickinson is making another comment about life in the grave (something she has written about in other poems): the dead forget us and live in some sort of half life, like the Greek shades in Hades.