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.
-Edgar Allan Poe
Written on February 14, 1827.