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 mystic wind me by
Memories in melody,
Then ah! Then I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.