The Hour of Lead — Holy Saturday

Poem #372 by Emily Dickinson

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-

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