the hour of lead

i got the dead dog over to the crematorium this morning --- driving and crying ---









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