• On 341, Emily Dickinson

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    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
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