The Quarrel

An instant only and her eyes Flashed lightning like the angry skies;

And o’er her forehead, curving down, Fell dark the shadow of a frown;

Then backward, deep and stormy fair, She tossed the tempest of her hair;

Then of her lips’ full rose disdain Made a pink-folded bud again;

Then quicker than all utterance, All changed: and at a word, a glance,

Her anger rained its tears, then passed; And she was in my arms at last;

The austere woman, doubly dear, And lovelier for each falling tear:

But why we quarreled, how it grew, I can not tell, I never knew:

Perhaps ’t was Love; he, who, with tears, Would show how fair a face appears;

As, after storm, the sky ’s more blue, A wildflower ’s fairer for the dew.