IN spring of youth it was my lot To haunt of the wide world a spot The which I could not love the less --- So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound, And the tall pines that towered around.
But when the Night had thrown her pall Upon that spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melody ---
Then --- ah then I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.
Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight ---
A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach or bribe me to define --- Nor Love --- although the Love were thine.
Death was in that poisonous wave, And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring To his lone imagining ---
Whose solitary soul could make An Eden of that dim lake.