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.