Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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 armor 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
Ella Wheeler Wilcox's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (The Coquette by Ella Wheeler Wilcox )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
- summer at grub street, lee fones
- Facebook, Phil Soar
- In Back Of The Bar, Kyle Schlicher
- Mad Moles, Phil Soar
- Hacked Off, Phil Soar
- punch the clock if you can make a fist, Mandolyn ...
- Tom The Badger, Phil Soar
- NotVery PC, Phil Soar
- Disguise, Aparna Chatterjee
- WHITE: The colour of pride, Mohammed Rakibul Hossain