I Think Just How my Shape Will Rise, di Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

I Think Just How my Shape Will Rise

237

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 I con that thing—"forgiven"—

Until& mdash;delirious—borne—

By my long bright—and longer—trust—

I drop my Heart—unshriven!

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Emily Dickinson

I Think Just How my Shape Will Rise

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