text: 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.