One that is ever kind said yesterday:

“Your well-belovèd’s hair has threads of grey,

And little shadows come about her eyes;

Time can but make it easier to be wise

Though now it seems impossible, and s

All that you need is patience.”

Heart cries, “No,

I have not a crump of comfort, not a grain.

Time can but make her beauty over again:

Because of that great nobleness of hers

The fire that stirs about her, when she stirs

Burns but more clearly. O she had not these ways When all the wild summer was in her gaze.”

O heart! O heart! if she’d but turn her head,You’d know the folly of being comforted. TzjLYy6tS7dIW6WCbJjukZfZ+p9774344t+9+V2TsEpCfhmNao+FEqLsbBu4KDGN