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
Though now it seems impossible, and so
All that you need is patience.
' Heart cries, 'No, I have not a crumb 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.
' Heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head, You'd know the folly of being comforted.

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