Gwendolyn B. Bennett, "Hatred" (1926)
Like a dart of singing steel
Shot through still air
At even-tide.
Or solemnly
As pines are sobre
When they stand etched
Against the sky.
Hating you shall be a game
Played with cool hands
And slim fingers.
Your heart will yearn
For the lonely splendour
Of the pine tree;
While rekindled fires
In my eyes
Shall wound you like swift arrows.
Memory will lay its hands
Upon your breast
And you will understand
My hatred.