XL
I think just how my shape will riseWhen I shall be forgiven,Till hair and eyes and timid headAre out of sight, in heaven.
I think just how my lips will weighWith shapeless, quivering prayerThat you, so late, consider me,The sparrow of your care.
I mind me that of anguish sent,Some drifts were moved awayBefore my simple bosom broke,—And why not this, if they?
And so, until delirious borneI con that thing,—“forgiven,”—Till with long fright and longer trustI drop my heart, unshriven!