THE QUARREL.

They faced each other: Topaz-brown

And lambent burnt her eyes and shot

Sharp flame at his of amethyst.—

“I hate you! Go, and be forgot

As death forgets!” their glitter hissed

( So seemed it ) in their hatred. Ho!

Dared any mortal front her so?—

Tempestuous eyebrows knitted down —

Tense nostril, mouth — no muscle slack,—

And black — the suffocating black —

The stifling blackness of her frown!

Ah! but the lifted face of her!

And the twitched lip and tilted head!

Yet he did neither wince nor stir,—

Only — his hands clenched; and, instead

Of words, he answered with a stare

That stammered not in aught it said,

As might his voice if trusted there.

And what — what spake his steady gaze?—

Was there a look that harshly fell

To scoff her?— or a syllable

Of anger?— or the bitter phrase

That myrrhs the honey of love's lips,

Or curdles blood as poison drips?

What made their breasts to heave and swell

As billows under bows of ships

In broken seas on stormy days?

We may not know — nor they indeed —

What mercy found them in their need.

A sudden sunlight smote the gloom;

And round about them swept a breeze,

With faint breaths as of clover-bloom;

A bird was heard, through drone of bees,—

Then, far and clear and eerily,

A child's voice from an orchard-tree —

Then laughter, sweet as the perfume

Of lilacs, could the hearing see.

And he — O Love! he fed thy name

On bruiséd kisses, while her dim

Deep eyes, with all their inner flame,

Like drowning gems were turned on him.