Emily Dickinson — 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.