154. 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’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 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.