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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 seem 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.'
o heart! o heart! if she'd but turn her head,
you'd know the folly of being comforted.

w. b. yeats