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?
