An Emily Dickinson Poem

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.