ABSTRACT
Lionel Johnson. From Poems, 1895. Written 1892. I hate you with a necessary hate. First, I sought patience: passionate was she: My patience turned in very scorn of me, That I should dare forgive a sin so great, As this, through which I sit disconsolate; Mourning for that live soul, I used to see; Soul of a saint, whose friend I used to be: Till you came by! a cold, corrupting, fate. Why come you now? You, whom I cannot cease With pure and perfect hate to hate? Go, ring The death-bell with a deep, triumphant toll! Say you, my friend sits by me still? Ah, peace! Call you this thing my friend? this nameless thing? This living body, hiding its dead soul?
