We sat together at one summers 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 moments 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 Theres 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, Its certain there is no fine thing Since Adams 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 times waters as they rose and fell About the stars and broke in days and years. I had a thought for no ones 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 wed grown As weary-hearted as that hollow moon.
Posted on: Fri, 29 Aug 2014 18:33:59 +0000