To Miss Louise Olivia Hunter - Edgar Allen Poe
Though I turn, I fly not -
I cannot depart;
I would try, but try not
To release my heart.
And my hopes are dying
While, on dreams relying,
I am spelled by art.
Thus, the bright snake coiling
'Neath the forest tree
Wins the bird, beguiling,
To come down and see:
Like that bird the lover
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