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 —