(22 June 1888 - 4 July 1916 / New York City, New York)

The Folly Of Being Comforted

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.

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Comments (1)

Thou art the rose that the world's smiles and tears Hover about like butterflies and bees. Thou art the theme the music of the spheres Echoes in endless, variant harmonies. - - -wouldn't it make you feel wonderful and beloved if a man ever said that to you?