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1836–1926

THE COQUETTE.

Marietta Holley

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.

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THE COQUETTE. · Marietta Holley · Poetry Cove