Sunday, 1 May 2011

The Truth, In Poetry

341 by 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-
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought-
A Wooden way
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone-

The is the Hour of Lead-
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the snow-
First- Chill- the Stupor- then the letting go-

From the Norton Anthology of Poetry, New York: Norton, 1975 (Written in 1862 (?))

Do you find a truth in this poem, like I have?

1 comment:

  1. So much so. I love her. My favourite is One Need Not Be a Chamber to Be Haunted.


Leave a comment