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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo
Colección 8, Poema 39
XL.
I
think
just
how
my
form
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
formless,
quivering
prayer
That
you,
so
late,
consider
me,
The
sparrow
of
your
care.
I
recall
that
of
anguish
sent,
Some
burdens
were
lifted
Before
my
simple
heart
broke,
—
And
why
not
this,
if
they?
And
so,
until
delirium
borne
I
ponder
that
word,
—
"forgiven,"
—
Till
with
long
fright
and
longer
trust
I
release
my
heart,
unshriven!
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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo — C1 Inglés | Cuentana