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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.