Catherine, 3

Yes, I now, a poor magician,
Like sage Merlin, am held fast
In my magic ring at last,
In disconsolate condition.

At her feet imprison’d sweetly
I am lying all the while,
Gazing on her eyes’ sweet smile,
And the hours are passing fleetly.

Thus, for hours, days, weeks behold me!
Like a vision time has fled,
Scarcely know I what I said,
And I know not what she told me.

Just as if her lips were dearly
Press’d to mine, beyond control
I am stirr’d, till in my soul
I can trace the flames full clearly.