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.