Monday, how do I loathe thee? Let me count the ways.
I loathe thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when falling out of sight
For the ends of weekends and the rat race.
I loathe thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I loathe thee freely, as men strive for night.
I loathe thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I loathe thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I loathe thee with a hate I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I loathe thee with the breath,
Scowls, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but loathe thee better after death.
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