THE LOVER'S QUARREL.
Light is the Lover's quarrel, men say—I think not so,
It is the hand we love the best that deals the hardest blow,
And the wounds that come from it the heart is still too proud to show.
It is the hand we love the best that deals the hardest blow,
And the wounds that come from it the heart is still too proud to show.
So closes over them; too proud? Nay! Pride is not so strong
As that which fain a hurt would hide although it rankle long,
From soothing that would only chafe, and pity that would wrong;
As that which fain a hurt would hide although it rankle long,
From soothing that would only chafe, and pity that would wrong;
For Anger born of Love, although like sweetest things that turn
The bitterest of all, it seem each soft'ning thought to spurn,
Yet owns the country whence it came, and after it will yearn,—
The bitterest of all, it seem each soft'ning thought to spurn,
Yet owns the country whence it came, and after it will yearn,—
And something there is still that brooks no word or thought unkind,
