Emily Dickinson

(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886 / Amherst / Massachusetts)

They Leave Us With The Infinite - Poem by Emily Dickinson

350

They leave us with the Infinite.
But He—is not a man—
His fingers are the size of fists—
His fists, the size of men—

And whom he foundeth, with his Arm
As Himmaleh, shall stand—
Gibraltar's Everlasting Shoe
Poised lightly on his Hand,

So trust him, Comrade—
You for you, and I, for you and me
Eternity is ample,
And quick enough, if true.


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Read poems about / on: trust



Poem Submitted: Monday, January 13, 2003



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