Emily Dickinson..
AFTER great pain, a formal feeling comesThe nerves sit ceremonious, like tombsThe 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 wooden 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 feet, mechanical, go round
Of ground, or air, or ought
A wooden 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