by 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 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.