| We sat together at one summer’s end, |
| That beautiful mild woman, your close friend, |
| And you and I, and
talked of poetry. |
| I said, ‘A line will take us hours maybe; |
| Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought, |
| Our stitching and unstitching has been naught. |
|
|
|
|
| Better go down upon your marrow-bones |
| And scrub a
kitchen pavement, or break stones |
| Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather; |
| For to articulate sweet
sounds together |
| Is to work harder than all these, and yet |
| Be thought an idler by the noisy set |
| Of bankers,
schoolmasters, and clergymen |
| The martyrs call the world.’ |
|
|
|
|
| And thereupon |
| That beautiful mild woman
for whose sake |
| There’s many a one shall find out all heartache |
| On finding that her voice is sweet and
low |
| Replied, ‘To be born woman is to know— |
| Although they do not talk of it at school— |
| That we must
labour to be beautiful.’ |
|
|
|
|
| I said, ‘It’s certain there is no fine thing |
| Since Adam’s fall but needs much labouring. |
| There have been lovers who thought love should be |
| So much compounded of high courtesy |
| That they
would sigh and quote with learned looks |
| Precedents out of beautiful old books; |
| Yet now it seems an idle
trade enough.’ |
|
|
|
|
| We sat grown quiet at the name of love; |
| We saw the last embers of daylight die, |
| And in
the trembling blue-green of the sky |
| A moon, worn as if it had been a shell |
| Washed by time’s waters as
they rose and fell |
| About the stars and broke in days and years. |
|
|
|
|
| I had a thought for no one’s but your
ears: |
| That you were beautiful, and that I strove |
| To love you in the old high way of love; |
| That it had all
seemed happy, and yet we’d grown |
| As weary-hearted as that hollow moon. |
