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Best Famous Hate Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Hate poems. This is a select list of the best famous Hate poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Hate poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of hate poems.

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by Emily Dickinson | |

I had no time to hate because

I had no time to hate, because
The grave would hinder me,
And life was not so ample I
Could finish enmity.
Nor had I time to love, but since Some industry must be, The little toil of love, I thought, Was large enough for me.


by Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings | |

Humanity i love you

Humanity i love you
because you would rather black the boots of
success than enquire whose soul dangles from his
watch-chain which would be embarrassing for both

parties and because you 
unflinchingly applaud all
songs containing the words country home and
mother when sung at the old howard

Humanity i love you because
when you're hard up you pawn your
intelligence to buy a drink and when
you're flush pride keeps 

you from the pawn shops and
because you are continually committing
nuisances but more
especially in your own house

Humanity i love you because you 
are perpetually putting the secret of
life in your pants and forgetting
it's there and sitting down

on it
and because you are 
forever making poems in the lap
of death Humanity

i hate you


by Frank O'Hara | |

Spleen

I know so much
about things I accept
so much it's like
vomiting.
And I am nourished by the shabbiness of my knowing so much about others and what they do and accepting so much that I hate as if I didn't know what it is to me.
And what it is to them I know and hate.


by Philip Larkin | |

Poetry Of Departures

 Sometimes you hear, fifth-hand,
As epitaph:
He chucked up everything
And just cleared off,
And always the voice will sound
Certain you approve
This audacious, purifying,
Elemental move.
And they are right, I think.
We all hate home And having to be there: I detect my room, It's specially-chosen junk, The good books, the good bed, And my life, in perfect order: So to hear it said He walked out on the whole crowd Leaves me flushed and stirred, Like Then she undid her dress Or Take that you bastard; Surely I can, if he did? And that helps me to stay Sober and industrious.
But I'd go today, Yes, swagger the nut-strewn roads, Crouch in the fo'c'sle Stubbly with goodness, if It weren't so artificial, Such a deliberate step backwards To create an object: Books; china; a life Reprehensibly perfect.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

La Passion Vaincue

 On the Banks of the Severn a desperate Maid 
(Whom some Shepherd, neglecting his Vows, had betray'd,) 
Stood resolving to banish all Sense of the Pain, 
And pursue, thro' her Death, a Revenge on the Swain.
Since the Gods, and my Passion, at once he defies; Since his Vanity lives, whilst my Character dies; No more (did she say) will I trifle with Fate, But commit to the Waves both my Love and my Hate.
And now to comply with that furious Desire, Just ready to plunge, and alone to expire, Some Reflection on Death, and its Terrors untry'd, Some Scorn for the Shepherd, some Flashings of Pride At length pull'd her back, and she cry'd, Why this Strife, Since the Swains are so Many, and I've but One Life?


by G K Chesterton | |

The World State

 Oh, how I love Humanity, 
 With love so pure and pringlish, 
And how I hate the horrid French, 
 Who never will be English! 

The International Idea, 
 The largest and the clearest, 
Is welding all the nations now, 
 Except the one that's nearest.
This compromise has long been known, This scheme of partial pardons, In ethical societies And small suburban gardens— The villas and the chapels where I learned with little labour The way to love my fellow-man And hate my next-door neighbour.


by Walter Savage Landor | |

The Evening Star

 Smiles soon abate; the boisterous throes 
Of anger long burst forth; 
Inconstantly the south-wind blows, 
But steadily the north.
Thy star, O Venus! often changes Its radiant seat above, The chilling pole-star never ranges -- 'Tis thus with Hate and Love.


by William Henry Davies | |

Come Let Us Find

 Come, let us find a cottage, love, 
That's green for half a mile around; 
To laugh at every grumbling bee, 
Whose sweetest blossom's not yet found.
Where many a bird shall sing for you, And in your garden build its nest: They'll sing for you as though their eggs Were lying in your breast, My love-- Were lying warm in your soft breast.
'Tis strange how men find time to hate, When life is all too short for love; But we, away from our own kind, A different life can live and prove.
And early on a summer's morn, As I go walking out with you, We'll help the sun with our warm breath To clear away the dew, My love, To clear away the morning dew.


by Helen Hunt Jackson | |

Tryst

 Somewhere thou awaitest, 
And I, with lips unkissed, 
Weep that thus to latest 
Thou puttest off our tryst!

The golden bowls are broken, 
The silver cords untwine; 
Almond flowers in token 
Have bloomed,---that I am thine!

Others who would fly thee 
In cowardly alarms, 
Who hate thee and deny thee, 
Thou foldest in thine arms!

How shall I entreat thee 
No longer to withhold? 
I dare not go to meet thee, 
O lover, far and cold!

O lover, whose lips chilling 
So many lips have kissed, 
Come, even if unwilling, 
And keep thy solemn tryst!


by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

Another Dark Lady

 Think not, because I wonder where you fled,
That I would lift a pin to see you there; 
You may, for me, be prowling anywhere, 
So long as you show not your little head: 
No dark and evil story of the dead
Would leave you less pernicious or less fair—
Not even Lilith, with her famous hair; 
And Lilith was the devil, I have read.
I cannot hate you, for I loved you then.
The woods were golden then.
There was a road Through beeches; and I said their smooth feet showed Like yours.
Truth must have heard me from afar, For I shall never have to learn again That yours are cloven as no beech’s are.


by George William Russell | |

Forgiveness

 My heart was heavy, for its trust had been 
Abused, its kindness answered with foul wrong; 
So, turning gloomily from my fellow-men, 
One summer Sabbath day I strolled among 
The green mounds of the village burial-place; 
Where, pondering how all human love and hate 
Find one sad level; and how, soon or late, 
Wronged and wrongdoer, each with meekened face, 
And cold hands folded over a still heart, 
Pass the green threshold of our common grave, 
Whither all footsteps tend, whence none depart, 
Awed for myself, and pitying my race, 
Our common sorrow, like a mighty wave, 
Swept all my pride away, and trembling I forgave!


by George William Russell | |

The Seer

 OH, if my spirit may foretell
 Or earlier impart,
It is because I always dwell
 With morning in my heart.
I feel the keen embrace of light Ere dawning on the view It sprays the chilly fold of night With iridescent dew.
The robe of dust around it cast Hides not the earth below, Its heart of ruby flame, the vast Mysterious gloom and glow.
Something beneath yon coward gaze Betrays the royal line; Its lust and hate, but errant rays, Are at their root divine.
I hail the light of elder years Behind the niggard mould, The fiery kings, the seraph seers, As in the age of gold.
And all about and through the gloom Breaths from the golden clime Are wafted like a sweet perfume From some most ancient time.


by George William Russell | |

Recall

 WHAT call may draw thee back again,
 Lost dove, what art, what charm may please?
The tender touch, the kiss, are vain,
 For thou wert lured away by these.
Oh, must we use the iron hand, And mask with hate the holy breath, With alien voice give love’s command, As they through love the call of death?


by George William Russell | |

The Christ-sword

 THE WHILE my mad brain whirled around
She only looked with eyes elate
Immortal love at me.
I found How deep the glance of love can wound, How cruel pity is to hate.
I was begirt with hostile spears: My angel warred in me for you Whose gentle calmness all too fierce Made unseen lightnings to pierce My heart that dripped with ruddy dew.
I know how on the final day The hosts of darkness meet with death: The angels with their love shall slay, Flowing to meet the dark array With terrible yet tender breath.


by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |

Foes

 Thank Fate for foes! I hold mine dear 
As valued friends.
He cannot know The zest of life who runneth here His earthly race without a foe.
I saw a prize, "Run," cried my friend; "'T is thine to claim without a doubt.
" But ere I half-way reached the end, I felt my strength was giving out.
My foe looked on the while I ran; A scornful triumph lit his eyes.
With that perverseness born in man I nerved myself, and won the prize.
All blinded by the crimson glow Of sin's disguise I tempted Fate.
"I knew thy weakness!" sneered my foe, I saved myself, and balked his hate.
For half my blessings, half my gain, I needs must thank my trusty foe; Despite his envy and disdain, He serves me well wher'er I go.
So may I keep him to the end, Nor may his enmity abate; More faithful that the fondest friend, He guards me with his hate.


by Friedrich von Schiller | |

German Faith

 Once for the sceptre of Germany, fought with Bavarian Louis
Frederick, of Hapsburg descent, both being called to the throne.
But the envious fortune of war delivered the Austrian Into the hands of the foe, who overcame him in fight.
With the throne he purchased his freedom, pledging his honor For the victor to draw 'gainst his own people his sword; But what he vowed when in chains, when free he could not accomplish, So, of his own free accord, put on his fetters again.
Deeply moved, his foe embraced him,--and from thenceforward As a friend with a friend, pledged they the cup at the feast; Arm-in-arm, the princes on one couch slumbered together.
While a still bloodier hate severed the nations apart.
'Gainst the army of Frederick Louis now went, and behind him Left the foe he had fought, over Bavaria to watch.
"Ay, it is true! 'Tis really true! I have it in writing!" Thus did the Pontifex cry, when he first heard of the news.


by Friedrich von Schiller | |

To A World-Reformer

 "I Have sacrificed all," thou sayest, "that man I might succor;
Vain the attempt; my reward was persecution and hate.
" Shall I tell thee, my friend, how I to humor him manage? Trust the proverb! I ne'er have been deceived by it yet.
Thou canst not sufficiently prize humanity's value; Let it be coined in deed as it exists in thy breast.
E'en to the man whom thou chancest to meet in life's narrow pathway, If he should ask it of thee, hold forth a succoring hand.
But for rain and for dew, for the general welfare of mortals, Leave thou Heaven to care, friend, as before, so e'en now.


by Mary Darby Robinson | |

Sonnet XX: Oh! I Could Toil For Thee

 Oh! I could toil for thee o'er burning plains;
Could smile at poverty's disastrous blow;
With thee, could wander 'midst a world of snow,
Where one long night o'er frozen Scythia reigns.
Sever'd from thee, my sick'ning soul disdains The thrilling thought, the blissful dream to know, And can'st thou give my days to endless woe, Requiting sweetest bliss with cureless pains? Away, false fear! nor think capricious fate Would lodge a daemon in a form divine! Sooner the dove shall seek a tyger mate, Or the soft snow-drop round the thistle twine; Yet, yet, I dread to hope, nor dare to hate, Too proud to sue! too tender to resign!


by David Herbert Lawrence | |

A Spiritual Woman

 Close your eyes, my love, let me make you blind; 
 They have taught you to see 
Only a mean arithmetic on the face of things, 
A cunning algebra in the faces of men, 
 And God like geometry 
Completing his circles, and working cleverly.
I'll kiss you over the eyes till I kiss you blind; If I can—if any one could.
Then perhaps in the dark you'll have got what you want to find.
You've discovered so many bits, with your clever eyes, And I'm a kaleidoscope That you shake and shake, and yet it won't come to your mind.
Now stop carping at me.
—But God, how I hate you! Do you fear I shall swindle you? Do you think if you take me as I am, that that will abate you Somehow?—so sad, so intrinsic, so spiritual, yet so cautious, you Must have me all in your will and your consciousness— I hate you.


by David Herbert Lawrence | |

A Sane Revolution

 If you make a revolution, make it for fun,
don't make it in ghastly seriousness,
don't do it in deadly earnest,
do it for fun.
Don't do it because you hate people, do it just to spit in their eye.
Don't do it for the money, do it and be damned to the money.
Don't do it for equality, do it because we've got too much equality and it would be fun to upset the apple-cart and see which way the apples would go a-rolling.
Don't do it for the working classes.
Do it so that we can all of us be little aristocracies on our own and kick our heels like jolly escaped asses.
Don't do it, anyhow, for international Labour.
Labour is the one thing a man has had too much of.
Let's abolish labour, let's have done with labouring! Work can be fun, and men can enjoy it; then it's not labour.
Let's have it so! Let's make a revolution for fun!


by David Herbert Lawrence | |

Lotus Hurt by the Cold

 How many times, like lotus lilies risen 
Upon the surface of a river, there 
Have risen floating on my blood the rare 
Soft glimmers of my hope escaped from prison.
So I am clothed all over with the light And sensitive beautiful blossoming of passion; Till naked for her in the finest fashion The flowers of all my mud swim into sight.
And then I offer all myself unto This woman who likes to love me: but she turns A look of hate upon the flower that burns To break and pour her out its precious dew.
And slowly all the blossom shuts in pain, And all the lotus buds of love sink over To die unopened: when my moon-faced lover, Kind on the weight of suffering, smiles again.


by Rainer Maria Rilke | |

On Hearing Of A Death

 We lack all knowledge of this parting.
Death does not deal with us.
We have no reason to show death admiration, love or hate; his mask of feigned tragic lament gives us a false impression.
The world's stage is still filled with roles which we play.
While we worry that our performances may not please, death also performs, although to no applause.
But as you left us, there broke upon this stage a glimpse of reality, shown through the slight opening through which you dissapeared: green, evergreen, bathed in sunlight, actual woods.
We keep on playiing, still anxious, our difficult roles declaiming, accompanied by matching gestures as required.
But your presence so suddenly removed from our midst and from our play, at times overcomes us like a sense of that other reality: yours, that we are so overwhelmed and play our actual lives instead of the performance, forgetting altogehter the applause.


by Lucy Maud Montgomery | |

To One Hated

 Had it been when I came to the valley where the paths parted asunder,
Chance had led my feet to the way of love, not hate,
I might have cherished you well, have been to you fond and faithful,
Great as my hatred is, so might my love have been great.
Each cold word of mine might have been a kiss impassioned, Warm with the throb of my heart, thrilled with my pulse's leap, And every glance of scorn, lashing, pursuing, and stinging, As a look of tenderness would have been wondrous and deep.
Bitter our hatred is, old and strong and unchanging, Twined with the fibres of life, blent with body and soul, But as its bitterness, so might have been our love's sweetness Had it not missed the way­strange missing and sad!­to its goal.


by Lucy Maud Montgomery | |

To My Enemy

 Let those who will of friendship sing,
And to its guerdon grateful be,
But I a lyric garland bring
To crown thee, O, mine enemy! 

Thanks, endless thanks, to thee I owe
For that my lifelong journey through
Thine honest hate has done for me
What love perchance had failed to do.
I had not scaled such weary heights But that I held thy scorn in fear, And never keenest lure might match The subtle goading of thy sneer.
Thine anger struck from me a fire That purged all dull content away, Our mortal strife to me has been Unflagging spur from day to day.
And thus, while all the world may laud The gifts of love and loyalty, I lay my meed of gratitude Before thy feet, mine enemy!


by Lady Mary Chudleigh | |

To the Ladies.

 WIFE and servant are the same,
But only differ in the name : 
For when that fatal knot is ty'd, 
Which nothing, nothing can divide : 
When she the word obey has said, 
And man by law supreme has made, 
Then all that's kind is laid aside, 
And nothing left but state and pride : 
Fierce as an eastern prince he grows, 
And all his innate rigour shows : 
Then but to look, to laugh, or speak, 
Will the nuptial contract break.
Like mutes, she signs alone must make, And never any freedom take : But still be govern'd by a nod, And fear her husband as a God : Him still must serve, him still obey, And nothing act, and nothing say, But what her haughty lord thinks fit, Who with the power, has all the wit.
Then shun, oh ! shun that wretched state, And all the fawning flatt'rers hate : Value yourselves, and men despise : You must be proud, if you'll be wise.