Quarrel


Let us quarrel for these reasons:
You detest the salt which seasons.
My speech . . . and all my lights go out
In the cold poison of your doubt.

I love Shelley . . . you love Keats
Something parts and something meets.
I love salads . . . you love chops;
Something goes and something stops.

Something hides its face and cries;
Something shivers; something dies.
I love blue ribbons brought from fairs;
You love sitting splitting hairs.

I love truth, and so do you . . .
Tell me, is it truly true?

By: Elinor Wylie