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
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