I Think Just How My Shape Will Rise
Emily Dickinson
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—delirious—borne— By my long bright—and longer—trust— I drop my Heart—unshriven!
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