Winterstorm

After great pain, a formal feeling comes—
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs—
The stiff Heart question '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—


Emily Dickinson