Would that I had never believed
In love; that I had never been deceived,
Had never known you, or your charms,
Had never known comfort in your arms, 
Had never known the pain truth can bring--
Your lies hurt only after the fact,
But your truth turned me back
Into nothing.

So what are these to which I hold
As if their very weight were gold?
Left behind in a mind
Which ever proved a fertile ground;
One which hoped, and sought, and found-- 
My heart becomes their funeral mound.

I shall cast them forth with fervent cry
That they be swallowed by the sky;
I shall pray that they
Should aught but fail to fall
Far beyond my memory?s call-- 
In love with Love, I hate them all.