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
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.

Posted in poem
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