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—

 

Emily Dickinson

Done