It ceased to hurt me, though so slow

It ceased to hurt me, though so slow
I was quite moved by this post from a friend of mine on Twitter, because the same thing  has happened to me several times in my life, and its uneventfulness is striking:
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There is, of course, a wonderful poem on this subject, which I happened upon this weekend in the Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson again:

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—

 

One thought on “It ceased to hurt me, though so slow

  1. That’s what it’s like when you’re on your own and you have no one to tell about the fantastic event. It just becomes something for you to notice alone. In the bible, however, after seeing the angels in his dream, Jacob, although alone, builds a little monument to his experience. His acknowledgement is quiet but he knows that it was significant.

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