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