The Coquette.

How can I be to blame?     Is it my fault I am fair?     I did not fashion my features,     Or brush the gold in my hair;     Because my eyes are so blue and bright,     Must I never look up from the ground,     But put out with my eyelids' snow their light,     Lest some foolish heart they should wound?     How can I be in fault?     I am sure where hearts are so few,     It is difficult to discern     The diamonds of paste from the true;     I thought him like all the rest,     Skilful in playing his part;     As careful at cards or at chess,     As winning a woman's heart.     I am sure it is nothing wrong,     Nothing to think of - and yet     I know I lured him with glance and song,     Into my shining net;     Provokingly cold at first he seemed,     Like crystal to smiles and sighs,     But at last he felt the magic that gleamed     In my dreamy violet eyes.     And I led him on and on,     Farther, in truth, than I strove,     For he frightened me with the earnestness     And violence of his love;     These calm-eyed men deceive -     Had I known the man had a heart,     I would have paused, I would, I believe,     Have acted a different part.     In his royal indignation     He uttered some wholesome truth -     He almost roused the emotion     That died in my innocent youth;     Emotion that lived when life was new,     Ere that man my pathway crossed,     Who played me a game untrue,     When I staked all my love, and lost.     Oh for a saintly beauty,     What efforts my soul did make;     I thought all goodness and purity     Were possible for his sake;     The world seemed born anew, my life     Such holy meaning wore,     I fancy so fair and fond a dream     Never fell into ruins before.     He toyed with my fresh affection     As he breathed the country air,     To refresh him after a season     Of fashion, and falsehood, and glare;     Had he not slain my tenderness,     Had my life been more sweet,     I might have known nobler happiness     Than to humble men to my feet.     But now I love to lure them on,     To make them slaves to my gaze,     Like serfs to a conqueror's chariot,     Like moths to a candle-blaze.     I melt most royally time, the pearl,     And quaff the cup like a queen,     And forget in the dizzy tumult and whirl,     The woman I might have been.