We sat together at one summer’s end,
\nThat beautiful mild woman, your close friend,
\nAnd you and I, and talked of poetry.
\nI said, “A line will take us hours maybe;
\nYet if it does not seem a moment’s thought,
\nOur stitching and unstitching has been naught.
\nBetter go down upon your marrow-bones
\nAnd scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones
\nLike an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;
\nFor to articulate sweet sounds together
\nIs to work harder than all these, and yet
\nBe thought an idler by the noisy set
\nOf bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen
\nThe martyrs call the world.”<\/p>\n
And thereupon
\nThat beautiful mild woman for whose sake
\nThere’s many a one shall find out all heartache
\nOn finding that her voice is sweet and low
\nReplied, “To be born woman is to know —
\nAlthough they do not talk of it at school —
\nThat we must labour to be beautiful.”<\/p>\n
I said, “It’s certain there is no fine thing
\nSince Adam’s fall but needs much labouring.
\nThere have been lovers who thought love should be
\nSo much compounded of high courtesy
\nThat they would sigh and quote with learned looks
\nprecedents out of beautiful old books;
\nYet now it seems an idle trade enough.”<\/p>\n
We sat grown quiet at the name of love;
\nWe saw the last embers of daylight die,
\nAnd in the trembling blue-green of the sky
\nA moon, worn as if it had been a shell
\nWashed by time’s waters as they rose and fell
\nAbout the stars and broke in days and years.<\/p>\n
I had a thought for no one’s but your ears:
\nThat you were beautiful, and that I strove
\nTo love you in the old high way of love;
\nThat it had all seemed happy, and yet we’d grown
\nAs weary-hearted as that hollow moon.<\/p>\n
(1902)<\/font><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" 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 […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[32],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-28","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-idle-trade-enough"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/poem.oftheweek.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/28","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/poem.oftheweek.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/poem.oftheweek.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/poem.oftheweek.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/poem.oftheweek.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=28"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/poem.oftheweek.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/28\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/poem.oftheweek.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=28"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/poem.oftheweek.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=28"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/poem.oftheweek.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=28"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}