XXIV THE QUARREL
Reading edition
SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF FRAGONARD
On the elm tree she was swinging, Just beyond the hedge of yew; But she slowly ceased from singing, From her breast a pink she drew.
Buttoning his coat of satin, Off he strode towards the woods, Tartly quoting Virgil’s Latin, That a woman’s made of moods.
Long ago within God’s garden Both were wrapped in long lone sleep, Heeding not if hoar frosts harden, Or the autumn leaves fall deep.
Laugh not at the statue calling Phyllis with her marble muff, Nor the marble cupids sprawling On a cloud of powder puff.
Laugh not at his hermit fashions Nor the book unwarmed by hope; Say not that it shows the passions Of a stony misanthrope.
For they loved while they were living, Loved with love untold, unheard; Though they parted unforgiving, Each too proud to say a word.