Further Poems of Emily Dickinson/It ceased to hurt me, though

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IT ceased to hurt me, though
So slow
I could not see the trouble go—
But only knew by looking back
That something had obscured
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 nail at night.

Nor what consoled it—I
Could trace,
Except whereas 'twas wilderness
It's better, almost Peace.

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