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.