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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