Monday, May 02, 2005


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


# posted by will : 6:12 AM
Comments:
why Bold?
# posted by Blogger will : 10:35 AM
 
Separated? Are these Comment bLOCKS sEPARATED?
OOps Sloppy Typing
Link
# posted by Blogger will : 11:32 PM
 
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