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—

  • 0
  • 0
  •  
  •  
Login to comment...
Email

Other works by Emily Dickinson...

Some poets who follow Emily Dickinson...

Milly Antcord R. A. Queiroz kamila more cabisada Margaux Sajous Aldair Acevedo Laura Alaniz