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.