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 wood 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.
