Emily Dickinson
After great pain, a formal feeling comes--
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs--
The stiff Heart questions was it He that bore,
And yesterday, or Centuries before?
The Feet, mechanical, go round--
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought--
A wooded way
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone--
This is the Hour of Lead--
Remembered, if outlived,
As freezing persons, recollect the Snow--
First--Chill--then Stupor--then the letting go--
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs--
The stiff Heart questions was it He that bore,
And yesterday, or Centuries before?
The Feet, mechanical, go round--
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought--
A wooded way
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone--
This is the Hour of Lead--
Remembered, if outlived,
As freezing persons, recollect the Snow--
First--Chill--then Stupor--then the letting go--