by Edgar Allan Poe
Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers
Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take,
How many memories of what radiant hours
At sight of thee and thine at once awake!
How many scenes of what departed bliss,
How many thoughts of what entombed hopes,
How many visions of a maiden that is
No more -- no more upon thy verdant slopes!
No more! alas, that magical sad sound
Transforming all! Thy charms shall please no more,
Thy memory no more. Accursed ground!
Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,
O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!
Isola d'oro! Fior di Levante!
Source:The Works Of Edgar Allan Poe
Volume 10: Poems
Stone & Kimball, Chicago