"Tell him that, our side the grave,
Maid may not conceive
Life should be so sad to have,
That's so sad to leave!"
What shall I your true-love tell,
When I come to him?
What shall I your true-love tell—
Eyes growing dim!
{169}
"Tell him this, when you shall part
From a maiden pined;
That I see him with my heart,
Now my eyes are blind."
What shall I your true-love tell?
Speaking-while is scant.
What shall I your true-love tell,
Death's white postulant?
"Tell him—love, with speech at strife,
For last utterance saith:
I, who loved with all my life,
Love with all my death."
Francis Thompson.
146. 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'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.
W. B. Yeats.