Story copied from the Wikisource. 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.