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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? Elinor Wylie
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