English poetry

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The Quarrel

The word I spoke in anger
Weighs less than a parsley seed,
But a road runs through it
That leads to my grave,
That bought-and-paid-for lot
On a salt-sprayed hill in Truro
Where the scrub pines
Overlook the bay.
Half-way I’m dead enough,
Strayed from my own nature
And my fierce hold on life.
If I could cry, I’d cry,
But I’m too old to be
Anybody’s child.
Liebchen,
With whom should I quarrel
Except in the hiss of love,
That harsh, irregular flame?

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Poem The Quarrel - Stanley Kunitz