E.D.~ The Poet. Not the Disease.

It dropped so low in my regard

IT dropped so low in my regard

I heard it hit the ground,

And go to pieces on the stones

At bottom of my mind;

Yet blamed the fate that fractured, less

Than I reviled myself

For entertaining plated wares

Upon my silver shelf.




Emily Dickinson

I'd like to thank my friend L. for sharing this with me. I feel a little bit better each time I read it. In my quest for a bit more solace I happened upon this poem as well. Hopefully this will come in time.

After great pain, a formal feeling comes

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--

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 (1862)