Emily Dickinson

A poor - torn heart - a tattered heart

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.