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.
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