Love holds its rightful place, as winsome queen,
of the emotions eager to renew
our spirit and our best traits she does preen
Is hate not our vile fellow traveller too?
I know of the insane, blind surgeon Hate
and its cold practiced carnage in the heart
with malice while it hums the song of fate
But yet a human trait in no small part
Hate brooks no love, and must e’er be restrained
In the mad sophist part of the naif mind
with tricks the demon lurks, and caring feigned
Our consort without love of any kind
We must shun mankind’s bastard like a scourge
Else there’ll be no life music but a dirge