A Poor Torn Heart, A Tattered Heart, By Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

 A poor torn heart, a tattered heart,
    That sat it down to rest,
    Nor noticed that the ebbing day
    Flowed silver to the west,
    Nor noticed night did soft descend
    Nor constellation burn,
    Intent upon the vision
    Of latitudes unknown.

    The angels, happening that way,
    This dusty heart espied;
    Tenderly took it up from toil
    And carried it to God.
    There, — sandals for the barefoot;
    There, — gathered from the gales,
    Do the blue havens by the hand
    Lead the wandering sails.