The folly of being comforted

One that is ever kind said yesterday:

'Your well-beloved's hair has threads of grey

And little shadows come about her eyes.

Time can but make it easier to be wise,

Tho' now it's hard

Till trouble is at an end.

And so, be patient,

Be wise and patient, friend.'

But heart there is no 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 fiercely. Ah, she had not these ways,

When all the wild summer was in her gaze.

Oh heart, oh heart!

If she'd but turn her head,

You'd know the folly of being comforted.