Dikt 341 - 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-
Of Ground, or Air, our 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