After great pain a dismal feeling comes

Emily Dickinson:

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.

A Certain Kind of Sickness

There's a certain slant of light,
On winter afternoons,
That oppresses, like the weight
Of cathedral tunes.

Emily Dickinson