| 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.
-- Emily Dickinson
Thursday, November 30, 2006
*This tiny heart appeared on my basement windowsill a few weeks ago, and has since blown away...