One that is ever kind said, yesterday,
Your well-beloved's hair has threads of gray,
And little shadows come about her eyes --
Time came 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 --
That fire that stirs when she stirs burns but the more clearly.
Oh, 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.

--Yeats again.

One of the few poems with two perfect endings!

yours,

Peter T.