559
 
It knew no Medicine—
It was not Sickness—then—
Nor any need of Surgery—
And therefore—'twas not Pain—
 
It moved away the Cheeks—
A Dimple at a time—
And left the Profile—plainer—
And in the place of Bloom
 
It left the little Tint
That never had a Name—
You’ve seen it on a Cast’s face—
Was Paradise—to blame—
 
If momently ajar—
Temerity—drew near—
And sickened—ever afterward
For Somewhat that it saw?

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