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Henry Thoreau (Генри Торо)


* * *


Indeed indeed, I cannot tell,
Though I ponder on it well,
Which were easier to state,
All my love or all my hate.
Surely, surely, thou wilt trust me
When I say thou dost disgust me.
O, I hate thee with a hate
That would fain annihilate;
Yet sometimes against my will,
My dear friend, I love thee still.
It were treason to our love,
And a sin to God above,
One iota to abate
Of a pure impartial hate.



Henry Thoreau's other poems:
  1. Let Such Pure Hate Still Underprop
  2. On Fields Oer Which the Reaper's Hand Has Passd
  3. Away! Away! Away! Away!
  4. The Inward Morning
  5. The Moon


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