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Fair isle that, from the fairest of all flowers,
Thy gentlest of all gentle names cost take!
How many memories of what radiant hours
At sight of thee and shine at once awake!
How many scenes of what departed bliss!
How many thoughts of what entombed 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! Accursed ground
Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,
O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!
Isola d’oro! Fior di Levante!
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[S:0 - MS, 1849] - Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore - Works - Poems - To Zante (Text-07)