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!