Explore "The Coquette" by Ella Wheeler Wilcox on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Alone she sat with her accusing heart, / That, like a restless comrade, frightened sleep, / And every thought that found her left a dart / That hurt her so, she could not even weep.
Her heart that once had been a cup well filled / With love's red wine, save for some drops of gall, / She knew was empty; though it had not spilled / Its sweets for one, but wasted them on all.
She stood upon the grave of her dead truth, / And saw her soul's bright armour red with rust, / And knew that all the riches of her youth / Were Dead Sea apples, crumbling into dust.
Love that had turned to bitter, biting scorn, / Hearthstones despoiled, and homes made desolate, / Made her cry out that she was ever born / To loathe her beauty and to curse her fate.