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.

         --Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)