Caprice

you held a wild-flower in your finger-tips,
idly you pressed it to indifferent lips,
idly you tore its crimson leaves apart...
alas! it was my heart.

you held a wine-cup in your finger-tips,
lightly you raised it to indifferent lips,
lightly you drank and flung away the bowl...
alas! it was my soul. 

                                                                -sarojini naidu.

borrowed from Beyond the last blue mountains