After a great pain, a formal feeling comes -- (372)

By Emily Dickinson

After greain pain, a formal feeling comes --
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs --
The stuff 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 --