To 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.