187
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 —
This is the Hour of Lead
— Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow —
First — Chill — then Stupor — then the letting go —
Source:
Becoming America, Wendy Kurant, ed., CC-BY-SA