I Think Just How My Shape Will Rise

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!