O love, there is a third—
Between hate and love,
And it’s real, though it has no word.
It’s how I feel towards you.
And this, stronger than the other two,
Consumes me with merciful fury;
It makes me cunning and willing to wait,
A cunning child of love and hate!
It means no harm, but the harm done
Makes me pause, and makes me worry,
Makes me swim, and makes me run.
It wants no love—but the love it had
Makes it artistic and longing and sad.
It wants the future, but hates to hurry.
It can’t be master; it can’t be slave:
The former was too meek, the latter, too brave;
Fallen is the tower; buried is the cave.
It looks like you and it looks like me,
It has beautiful lips. And reads poetry.
It is not love. It is not hate.
It is love in a drama of love. Love in a lovely, sweet debate.
Some call it revenge, but it’s not really that.
The hate is a mouse. The love is a cat.
It was happy. And now its happiness is sorrow.
It has its hates, my love. But will love you, tomorrow.