It Ceased To Hurt Me, Though So Slow
Emily Dickinson
584 It ceased to hurt me, though so slow I could not feel the Anguish go— But only knew by looking back— That something—had benumbed the Track— Nor when it altered, I could say, For I had worn it, every day, As constant as the Childish frock— I hung upon the Peg, at night. But not the Grief—that nestled close As needles—ladies softly press To Cushions Cheeks— To keep their place— Nor what consoled it, I could trace— Except, whereas ’twas Wilderness— It’s better—almost Peace—
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