Go back to It ceased to hurt me, though so slow

Emily Dickinson (1830 - 1886)
It ceased to hurt me, though so slow

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 --

(#584)



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