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
A wooden way
Of ground, or air, or ought,
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.
by Emily Dickinson
English
