Ida Poem by Samuel Alfred Beadle

She is a woman, bright and trim,
Of five and twenty years,
Who trips along with pleasure
And spends her smiles for tears.


Her hair retains its raven hue,
Her sparkling eye its fire;
But her heart is sad, discordant,
A strung, but tuneless lyre.


For she staked her all on conquest
Of the voluptuous host,
With society's devotees
Bet high, played long and lost.


She's wiser now than yesterday,
At last she spurns the dream
That women were made for pleasure,
And men are what they seem.