funeralizing ma, finale

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.

emily dickinson