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- 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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