In memory of my worlit class.

After great pain, a formal feeling comes

Emily Dickinson

341

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—

Online text © 1998-2009 Poetry X. All rights reserved.

From The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson | Written c. 1862