I think just how my shape will rise —
by Emily Dickinson (1830–1886)
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!
Source: Wikisource
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Because I could not stop for Death—
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There is a pain — so utter —
It swallows substance up —
Then covers the Abyss with Trance — …
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A charm invests a face
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The lady dare not lift her veil …
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There came a Wind like a Bugle —
It quivered through the Grass
And a Green Chill upon the Heat …
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