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