Emily Dickinson, 372

 
Gefoel wurdt foarmelik nei grutte smert -
De Sinen stean, as Sarken, yn ’t gelid -
It stramme Hert tinkt ‘wie dat lijen Synt’
En ‘wie it Juster of al Ieuwen lyn’?

De Fuotten gean wurktúchlik rûn -
In Houten gong
Fan Grûn, of Lucht, hast Neat -
Temûk ûntstien,
In Kwartsen kalmte, as in stien -

Dy Stûne is fan Lead -
Untholden, is ’t passeard,
Sa’t wa’t befriest, memoarje hat oan Snie –
Nei - Kjeld - Ferdôving - dan loslitte wat wie -

 

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 -

 

F372 (J341)

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