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 —