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 I con that thing – "forgiven" –
Until – delirious – borne –
By my long bright – and longer – trust –
I drop my Heart – unshriven!
F252 (1861) 237
This poem continues from the previous one where the lover, as bleeding spaniel, is wanting its beloved master to know it is about to die of grief and wants to be back in his good graces. She is still waiting here for forgiveness and in facts anticipates that her “shape” will be rising up to heaven by the time that happens. We see the shape rising: first the hair ascends until out of sight, then the eyes, and finally even the poor “timid Head” disappear above the clouds. As she goes her shapeless lips will be still be praying – in a “quivering – prayer” the beloved at last, “so late” might consider her worthy of his care, just as Jesus once said the God the Father cares for every little sparrow.
She remembers the “Anguish” of her tormented love. Some things must have gotten better, for she says that “Some drifts were moved away”: some portion of her piles of grief, before her heart broke. Her bosom here is “simple” in accordance with her head being “timid.” But some large “drift” must still block her beloved’s forgiveness, for she asks, why could those things be forgiven but not “this”?
And so she ponders the notion of being “forgiven” until at last she is “borne” away to Heaven by her brighter and more enduring faith in God. Only at this point can she “drop” her heart. In a last wave of pathos she adds that her earthly heart will remain “unshriven!” – meaning still unforgiven by her beloved.
It’s not a memorable poem, and thankfully Dickinson moves beyond this turmoil in her life – at least to the degree that her later poetry distills grief into a knife edge of expression.