Classic Poem

As some wild bird from bough to bough is flitting,
When man is roaming in her still retreat,
So timidly didst thou forsake thy seat
When once I sought the room where thou wert sitting:
And thou, it may be, shewedst me, in quitting
The place I came to with unwelcome feet,
Thou wouldst not wound my heart, unless 'twere fitting
To bless me with the charms for which it beat.

Away! thou heart-insnaring one, I know
The stealthy hunter may desire to hide
His weapons from the victim he would kill.

But thou, in shunning, slewest me; for though
Thy lovely face, indeed, was turn'd aside,
Thy graceful shape and air could wound me still.