She loves what she hates—
And so she loves me,
And hating, like love, cannot be helped;
We hate what we cannot see,
For seeing is a kind of love,
And is love, in the infinite eye.
Hate obscures our seeing;
She hates me so much it makes her cry.
Her hate is a tear in her eye.
She loses love, not seeing me accurately.
She errs, she mistakes, she slanders me
In hot, passionate hate
Which resembles love; such is her fate,
That others ask, why do you speak
So much of him? Is it hate? Or love—which makes you weak?