Emily Dickinson wrote it best:
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
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-