Page:Emily Dickinson Poems - second series (1891).djvu/240

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HINK just how my shape will rise When I shall be forgiven, Till hair and eyes and timid head Are out of sight, in heaven.

I think just how my lips will weigh With shapeless, quivering prayer That you, so late, consider me, The sparrow of your care.

I mind me that of anguish sent, Some drifts were moved away Before my simple bosom broke, — And why not this, if they?

And so, until delirious borne I con that thing, — "forgiven," — Till with long fright and longer trust I drop my heart, unshriven!