Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete · Emily Dickinson
Chapter 40
Chapter 110 of 146 · 1 min read
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!
XLI.
THE FORGOTTEN GRAVE.
After a hundred years Nobody knows the place, — Agony, that enacted there, Motionless as peace.
Weeds triumphant ranged, Strangers strolled and spelled At the lone orthography Of the elder dead.
Winds of summer fields Recollect the way, — Instinct picking up the key Dropped by memory.
