To A Jilt Poem by Samuel Alfred Beadle

Why did you not tell me your heart is stone,
Where hope, nor joy, nor pleasures abide;
At whose granite base lies broken my own,
Shorn of its faith and bereft of its pride?


Yes, I recall, you said something of this,
But the light of your eye, the smile of your face,
Led me to confide in the promised bliss
You taught me to seek of your assumed grace.


And I dreamed not that one with features so fair,
And a form which truly the angels envy,
Could weave so well the treacherous snare
Of vice, and pride, and perjured frenzy.


Fare thee well! Satanic creature, adieu!
Think no more of him who now tries to wean
His soul from squandering his all on you -
Thou false in friendship, in wedlock a fiend!