It ceased to hurt me, though so slow

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.

Structure

14 lines · 1 stanza