Poetry Archives

I give thee back thy fickle heart,
  Thy faithless vows I’ve spurned,
I bury deep the blighted hopes
  That in my bosom burned.

Yet who had thought a brow so fair,
  From guile so seeming free,
A voice so sweet, so winning rare,
  So treacherous could be?

Who would have dreamed a form that seemed
  Proud Honor’s templed shrine,
Could hold within an urn of sin
  A soul so false as thine?

Nor strange ’twould be, if ne’er again,
  Till age had wasted youth,
That heart betrayed by such as thou,
  Could trust in human truth.

But go! and though thy wiles no more
  Will move my heart to strife,
Canst glad thy vain soul with the thought
  That thou hast wrecked a life.