perfect

341

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 —
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought —
A Wooden way
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

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2 thoughts on “perfect

    • I know I’ve read it before (maybe with Noble?) but I ran across it again last night. I really like it. I have to teach a Dickinson poem to my Pedagogy class on Wednesday, and I think I’m going to go with this one.

      Hope you’re doing well in NY!

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