The Folly Of Being Comforted

William Butler Yeats （1865-1939）

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

Patience is all that you have need of.' No，

I have not a crumb¹ 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 folly² of being comforted.