2014. július 10.

Megint szép szavakba kapaszkodom

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.

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