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-
Firs - Chill -then Stupor -then the letting go-