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 person, recollect the Snow--
First - Chill - then Stupor - then the letting go--
                                                                  Emily Dickenson