Then backward, deep and stormy fair,
She tossed the tempest of her hair;
Then of her lips’ full rose disdain
Made a pink-folded bud again;
Then quicker than all utterance,
All changed: and at a word, a glance,
Her anger rained its tears, then passed;
And she was in my arms at last;
The austere woman, doubly dear,
And lovelier for each falling tear:
But why we quarreled, how it grew,
I can not tell, I never knew:
Perhaps ’t was Love; he, who, with tears,
Would show how fair a face appears;
As, after storm, the sky ’s more blue,
A wildflower ’s fairer for the dew.