The Quarrel.

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.