I Think Just How My Shape Will Rise By Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

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!