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.
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