Poe, Edgar Allan: 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 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 !