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.