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172
The love quarrel.
So I might hear you speak again. You're thinking of it still—
Let Blanche's golden tresses sweep your forehead at their will!

And how we jested softly, while your breath upon my brow
Fell warmer than another's kiss; and your lightest word sank low,
Low through the full tides of my soul, as a jewel that is thrown
'Mid the waters, still lies hoarded when the ripple is all gone.
Without, a willow trailed its wands along the mossy eaves,
And your heart was full of love-words as the tree was full of leaves.

The leaves are fallen from the tree to bud i' the April rain,
And your lips are very silent now, but their music comes again,