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!