Think back to those tribes of prehistory especially during the warmer parts of the ice age when people would shed some of their animal skins and breathe in a little of the air. Beautiful women could have been trouble.
With beauty comes envy, lust, jealousy, remorse and a whole host of other human disturbances. The world weary character who sighs “women” really means beautiful women.
They are problematic because they are rare and anything rare is valuable and anything valuable will be tried for and fought over if necessary. Somehow or other it was usually the Shaman who got her. (I mean “got” as in olden tribal days constructs, folks.)
Out of all the possibilities for randomness in the world, for ugliness and disorder comes a woman endowed from hair to toenail with a sublime agreeableness. Everything is as it should be. Such perfection in this crass physical existence is nothing short of miraculous.
You believe in God. You will kill for her.
So, Mr. Keats… is beauty at last the truth we seek or is honey the root of all evil?