Emily Dickinson

It Ceased To Hurt Me, Though So Slow

poem 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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