Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

Hate

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.

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,

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,

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.