THE FOLLY OF BEING COMFORTED.

By William Butler Yeats

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.