| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917. |
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| 345. Hate |
| | | By James Stephens |
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| 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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