THE ARROW
I thought of your beauty and this arrow
Made out of a wild thought is in my marrow.
There's no man may look upon her, no man,
As when newly grown to be a woman,
Blossom pale, she pulled down the pale blossom
At the moth hour and hid it in her bosom.
This beauty's kinder yet for a reason
I could weep that the old is out of season.
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.
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