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.
1862й год однако. Ну и да, "many are cold, but few are frozen".