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 console it I could trace,
Except whereas 'twas wilderness,
It's better, almost peace.