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.
William Butler Yeats