A poor heart

" A poor torn heart, a bit tattered to start beating, that sat to rest from the ache; unnoticed the ebbing day. Nor noticed night did softly decend. Nor constellation burn in the dark.

Intent upon vision and to be seen. Of longitudes and latitudes unknown to me.

The angels happening that way, This dusty heart espied; Tenderly taken up from toil.

And carried it to God. Where, there, were sandles for bare feet. There, gathered from the gales. To the blue heavens by the hand. Lead the wandering sails of a life incomplete."