Classic Poem

I curse the day on which I first beheld
The treacherous light of those deceitful eyes;
I curse the hour, when from her throne expelled
Reason gave up my captive soul your prize.
I curse my own poetic art that swelled
Your praise in choral numbers to the skies,
Making immortal — boundless — unexcelled
Charms soon to perish, had I been but wise.
Aye! and I execrate my stubborn mind,
That clings perversely to its proper ill,
In its false idol's witcheries to find
What love still swears by, and is perjured still;
A jest to him becoming, and mankind,
For trusting Fortune's Wheel, and Woman's Will!