Classic Poem

3.

Now like Merlin, fond magician,
I am powerless at last:
In the magic circle fast,
That I wove to my perdition.

I am bound, and lying lowly
At her feet, and evermore
Looking upward I adore,
While the hours are drifting slowly.

Hours, and days, and weeks, unbroken —
Like a dream they drift and go.
What I read I hardly know:
Hardly know what she has spoken.

And I fancy oft, in yearning,
That her lips are laid on mine —
In my soul a flame divine
Kindles then to raptured burning.