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Text: Edgar Allan Poe, "The Lake" (B), "Wilmer" manuscript collection, about 1828

The Lake
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 a stilly melody,
My boyish spirit would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.

Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight,
And a feeling undefined
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 lone imagining,
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake.


The MS bears the page number 29 on the front, and 30 on the back.

[S:0 - MS, 1828 (photocopy)] - Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore - Works - Poems - The Lake (B)