The Lake
by 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.

-The End-

Untitled
by Edgar Allan Poe

A wilder'd being from my birth
    My spirit spurn'd control,
But now, abroad on the wide earth,
    Where wand'rest thou my soul?

In visions of the dark night
    I have dream'd of joy departed —
But a waking dream of life and light
    Hath left me broken-hearted.

And what is not a dream by day
    To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
    Turn'd back upon the past?

That holy dream — that holy dream,
    While all the world were chiding,
Hath cheer'd me as a lovely beam
    A lonely spirit guiding —

What tho' that light, thro' misty night
    So dimly shone afar—
What could there be more purely bright
    In Truth's day — star ?

-The End-