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.

Emily Dickinson
Lilypie Angel and Memorial tickers

Friday, April 30, 2010

In this bed Pt. 2


Emily Dickinson (1830–86).
Complete Poems. 1924.
Part Four: Time and Eternity

LXIII

AMPLE make this bed.
Make this bed with awe;
In it wait till judgment break
Excellent and fair.

Be its mattress straight, 5
Be its pillow round;
Let no sunrise’ yellow noise
Interrupt this ground.
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