Seven Woods — The Folly of being Comforted
| One that is ever kind said yesterday: |
| ‘Your well-belovèd’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.’ |
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| O heart! O heart! if she’d but turn her head, |
| You’d know the folly of being comforted. |