Two by Yeats
at 7:29 pmsite-map (Other Writ, Poetry)HE REPROVES THE CURLEW
O CURLEW, cry no more in the air,
Or only to the water in the West;
Because your crying brings to my mind
passion-dimmed eyes and long heavy hair
That was shaken out over my breast:
There is enough evil in the crying of wind.
******
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.
