It ceased to hurt me, though so slow

by Emily Dickinson (1830–1886)

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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