1

 

In youth's spring 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 tower'd around:

But when the night had thrown her pall

Upon that spot — as upon all,

And the black wind murmur'd by,

In a dirge of melody —

My infant spirit would awake

To the terror of the lone lake.

 

2

 

Yet that terror was not fright —

But a tremulous delight —

A feeling not the jewell'd mine

Should ever bribe me to define —

Nor Love — altho' the Love be thine: [page 65:]

 

3

 

Death was in that poison'd wave —

And, in it's [[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.