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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo
Colección 8, Poema 39
XL.
I
think
just
how
my
shape
will
rise
When
I
shall
be
forgiven,
Till
hair
and
eyes
and
shy
head
Are
out
of
sight,
in
heaven.
I
think
just
how
my
lips
will
weigh
With
shapeless,
shaking
prayer
That
you,
so
late,
consider
me,
The
sparrow
of
your
care.
I
remember
that
of
pain
sent,
Some
drifts
were
moved
away
Before
my
simple
heart
broke,
—
And
why
not
this,
if
they?
And
so,
until
madly
carried
I
think
that
thing,
—
"forgiven,"
—
Till
with
long
fear
and
longer
trust
I
drop
my
heart,
unshriven!
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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo — B1 Inglés | Cuentana