The Lake--To--

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 lack, 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 n melody--

The--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 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.

- Edgar Allan Poe