Edgar Allan Poe — Sonnet—To Zante

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 entombéd 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! Accurséd ground         Henceforth I hold thy flower-enameled shore, O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!         "Isola d'oro! Fior di Levante!"