Entry the forty-ninth

[bethefawn]

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,
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.