The Lake

But when the Night had thrown her pall

Upon the 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.