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.