Classic Poem

Crowned with a golden opulence of hair,
I see thee yet, as when, that night in June,
The lambent glory of the ample moon;
Touching thy forehead, made thee saintly-fair!
Would I could alway so remember thee,
O Sorceress of sorrow! and forget
Thy smooth ficticious vows when first we met —
Thy words more faithless than the changeful sea!
Would I could exorcise thee, nor retain
Thy memory, made immortal by its pain!
The magnetism of thy violet eyes,
So held me by their facinating spell,
I dreamed not thou hadst slipt from dismal hell —
A dulcet devil in a saint's disguise!