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 persons, recollect the Snow --
           First -- Chill -- then Stupor -- then the letting go --

                                               
                                                 Emily Dickinson
                                                  1862