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. February 14