After great pain, a formal feeling comes

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 – After great pain, A formal feeling comes – The Nerves sit still – Ceremonious – like Tombs – After great pain, Time loosens form – And all the world Becomes a norm – This is the Hour of Lead— Remembered, if outlived— As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow— First—Chill—then Stupor—then the letting go— The Feet, mechanical— Still go round— A Wooden way— Without a sound— After great pain— A formal feeling comes— The Nerves sit still— Ceremonious—like Tombs— After great pain— No shift, no storm— Only the shape Of something worn— First—Chill— Then Stupor— Then the letting go— After great pain— A formal feeling comes— …comes— …comes— Lyrics: Emily Dickinson (adapted by Cheshirah)