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?