I hate thee to the depth and breadth and height
My fingers can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of the clip that pinged into space.
I hate thee to the level of everyday’s
Most quiet need, to fix a king-pin by candle-light.
I hate thee freely, as I strive for Right;
I hate thee purely, as I turn from Praise.
I hate with passion thy deceptively simple design
That belies the sheer bastardness of trying to put you to use.
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I hate thee with the ruby rich life blood I seemed to lose
From fingertips stabb’d by circlip plier,—I hate thee with the breath,
Sweat, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,
I shall but hate thee better after thy death.
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