Thursday, October 24, 2013

A POOR torn heart, a tattered heart.


Part One: Life


Emily Dickinson (1830–86).

A POOR torn heart, a tattered heart,
That sat it down to rest,
Nor noticed that the ebbing day
Flowed silver to the west,
Nor noticed night did soft descend        5
Nor constellation burn,
Intent upon the vision
Of latitudes unknown.
The angels, happening that way,
This dusty heart espied;        10
Tenderly took it up from toil
And carried it to God.
There,—sandals for the barefoot;
There,—gathered from the gales,
Do the blue havens by the hand        15
Lead the wandering sails.
Kobo Mini

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