To Miss Louise Olivia Hunter

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

Round his fate will hover

Till the blow is over

And he sinks—like me.

(1847)