Posted by: W. E. Poplaski | February 17, 2009


by James Stephens (1882 – 1950).


Hate (1917)


My enemy came high, 

And I 

Stared fiercely in his face. 

My lips went writhing back in a grimace, 

And stern I watched him with a narrow eye.         5

Then, as I turned away, my enemy, 

That bitter heart and savage, said to me: 

“Some day, when this is past, 

When all the arrows that we have are cast, 

We may ask one another why we hate,                 10

And fail to find a story to relate. 

It may seem to us then a mystery 

That we could hate each other.” 

Thus said he, 

And did not turn away,                                                15

Waiting to hear what I might have to say. 

But I fled quickly, fearing if I stayed 

I might have kissed him as I would a maid.



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