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-
