Emily Dickinson

I Think Just How My Shape Will Rise

poem 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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