The lake

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.