Classic Poem

Thinkest thou that thy dimples deceive us,
O thou coquette?
Thou wilt lure us, love us, leave us,
Laugh and forget.
Ah! what is that,
My fair?—
A redbreast—a rose—
Plumage for your hat—
Petals for your hair
You suppose—

Nay, but, coquette that thou art,
Dost understand?—
It is my heart
Thou hast in thy hand.

So then, toss it away.
Hearts blossom every day.
There are many more that beat
About thy feet.
Take one!
Break one!
What does it matter?
Other lovers will flatter,
Calling thee fair,
And will bear
A heart for thee to tatter
Or to wear.

Hearts are thy playthings: is it not so,
O coquette?
But when we get love we do not know
The gift we get!

Hearts are thy playthings—here is mine!
Why, thine eyes are wet!
Love is holy and divine,