The Lakeby Edgar Allan Poe
In youth's spring, it was my lot To haunt of the wide earth 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 tower'd around. But when the night had thrown her pall Upon that spot ? as upon all, And the wind would pass me by In its stilly melody, My infant spirit would awake To the terror of the lone lake. Yet that terror was not fright ? But a tremulous delight, And a feeling undefin'd, Springing from a darken'd mind. Death was in that poison'd wave And in its gulf a fitting grave For him who thence could solace bring To his dark imagining; Whose wild'ring thought could even make An Eden of that dim lake.