The Quarrel

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Could I divine how her gray eyes
  Gat such cold haughtiness of skies;

  How, some wood-flower's shadow brown,
  Dimmed her fair forehead's wrath a frown;

  How, rippled sunshine blown thro' air,
  Tossed scorn her eloquence of hair;

  How to a folded bud again
  She drew her blossomed lips' disdain;

  Naught deigning save eyes' utterance,
  Star-words, which quicker reach the sense;

  Then, afterwards, how melted there
  The austere woman to one tear;

  Then were I wise to know how grew
  This star-stained miracle of blue,
  How God makes wild flowers out of dew.

© Madison Julius Cawein