Lines to a Critic

Honey from silkworms who can gather,

      Or silk from the yellow bee?

The grass may grow in winter weather

      As soon as hate in me.

Hate men who cant, and men who pray,

      And men who rail like thee;

An equal passion to repay

      They are not coy like me.

Or seek some slave of power and gold

      To be thy dear heart's mate;

Thy love will move that bigot cold

      Sooner than me, thy hate.

A passion like the one I prove

      Cannot divided be;

I hate thy want of truth and love—

      How should I then hate thee?