by 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-
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 I con that thing-"forgiven"-
By my long bright-and longer-trust-
I drop my Heart-unshriven!
Last updated June 21, 2015