James Stephens (1882–1950)

MY enemy came nigh,

And I

Stared fiercely in his face.

My lips went writhing back in a grimace,

And stern I watch’d him with a narrow eye.

Then, as I turn’d 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 stay’d

I might have kiss’d him as I would a maid.