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!