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.