Читать книгу The Complete Poetry - Эдгар Аллан По, Marta Fihel - Страница 100

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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.