Sunday, December 16, 2012

The Hour of Lead

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.   Source: The Poetry Foundation


  1. Thank you for this, Bardiac. It's hard to have any words this weekend.

  2. Very appropriate, Bardiac. Thank you.

  3. Anonymous8:49 AM

    Perfect (and not one I was familiar with).