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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.


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Poem A poor torn heart a tattered heart - Emily Dickinson
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