Poem by Henry David Thoreau

* * *

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.

1. Sic Vita
2. The Atlantides
3. Nature
4. Inspiration
5. On Fields Oer Which the Reaper's Hand Has Passd

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