They leave us with the Infinite

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.

poem by Emily Dickinson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!