| after a 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 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 -
-one of my very favorite poems written by emily dickinson. |