Poet Wheel
Adam’s Curse
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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.
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