My heart is now no better than a sieve.
It cannot hold a thing—not love, not blood.
I thought I had so much in me to give,
But it's a small sad puddle more than flood.
So little, after all, what it could hold.
So weak, so human, giving up so fast.
Hearts should be stronger stuff, like stone, or gold—
This beating flesh-stuff was not made to last.

And what shall I do now, with such a heart,
Empty, useless, betrayer and betrayed?
What shall the poets write about my part?
"She lived to love, and what poor love she made."

Shield me from such a fate! I'll try anew.
Come, heart, here's blood. This time we'll be more true.