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.