by Edgar Allen Poe
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.