by Edgar Allan PoeWritten 1847This page may contain affiliate links, for which we may receive a small commission at no extra cost to you. This helps support Love Letters to Poe. 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.“To Miss Louise Olivia Hunter,” one of many poems by Edgar Allan Poe, was written in 1847.