Emily Elizabeth Dickinson (Эмили Дикинсон)

* * *

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!

1. The Nearest Dream Recedes, Unrealized
2. Experiment to Me
3. This Merit Hath the Worst
4. Till the End
5. Lay This Laurel on the One

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1740

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