Emily Dickinson - A poor -- torn heart -- a tattered heart
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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 -- Nor Constellation burn -- Intent upon the vision Of latitudes unknown. The angels -- happening that way This dusty heart espied -- 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 Lead the wandering Sails. |
