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.