XL. 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!
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