The Quarrel
Thou shall not me persuade
This love of ours
Can in a moment fade,
Like summer flowers;
That a swift word or two,
In angry haste,
Our heaven shall undo,
Our hearts lay waste.
For a poor flash of pride,
A cold word spoken,
Love shall not be denied,
Or long troth broken.
Yea; wilt thou not relent?
Be mine the wrong,
No more the argument,
Dear love, prolong.
The summer days go by,
Cease that sweet rain,
Those angry crystals dry,
Be friends again.
So short a time at best
Is ours to play,
Come, take me to thy breast—
Ah! that’s the way.
