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After great pain, a formal feeling comes - The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs - The stiff Heart question 'was it He, that bore,' And 'Yesterday, or Centuries before?'
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The Feet, mechanical, go round - A Wooden way Of Ground, or Air, or Ought - Regardless Grown, A Quartz contentment, like a stone...
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This is the Hour of Lead - Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow - First - Chill - then Stupor - then letting go -Emily Dickinson
Riportata da il
05/03/2025 alle ore 08:44