Poemsby Emily Dickinson


 I think 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!