Seven Years On: the Hour of Lead

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 --

- Emily Dickinson, #341