Poems (Truesdell)/Stanzas to . . . . . . . .

by Helen Truesdell

STANZAS TO . . . . . . . .

Ah! proud and cold 's thy every look,
 And haughty is thy smile;
Yet honeyed words are on thy tongue,
 Placed there but to beguile

My woman's weakness. But 'tis vain,
 This heart can never bend,
Though once it had a foolish dream,
 With thine, proud one, to blend.

But it has fled from out my heart,
 Ah! fled into the past!
And visions, false as they were vain,
 No more my soul o'ercast.

Thy syren voice no more can charm
 A heart so fond as mine;
Whose greatest grief is that it laid
 An offering on thy shrine—

The offering of a guileless heart,
 Thy falsehood first awoke!
By every word that love held dear,
 To me in kindness spoke,—

By every word in fondness said,—
 By every flattering tone,
With which you sought to lure my heart,
 And leave it then alone,—

I tell thee, that I scorn thee now,
 Far more than words can speak;
Thou'lt read it in my flashing eye,
 And on my burning cheek.

Thou'lt never know how long it took
 To break the fearful chain;
But well thou knowest 'tis not for thee
 To bind this heart again.

Methinks it was a poor, mean boast,
 That thou hadst cast a spell
Around a fond, weak girl, who "loved,
 Not wisely, but too well."