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.
Credits
Edgar Allan Poe (1809–1849) was an American poet and fiction writer celebrated for his mastery of beauty, melancholy, and dread. This poem, dated February 14, was written as a Valentine's verse — a striking choice of occasion given its imagery of predatory enchantment and inevitable ruin.
