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 –
And the Erased within me thumps –
A little drum,
So big the dust – that pets the Pain!

Then also – for the killing winds –
That are the last to call –
For the happiest hours of my life – whose loss larger than large –

• Emily Dickinson