The Lake


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 trees 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.


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