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 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.