Classic Poem

How fair art thou, O blue, unfathomed lake!
Whose face the West wind almost fears to trouble,
And only snow-white lilies dare to break,
Coy-dipping, that still flood with airy bubble.

Here casts no fisherman his treacherous lure,
Here glides no skiff with tremulous reflection—
Here only Nature's voices, restful, pure,
Murmur to Solitude a sweet subjection.

Wild roses scatter incense on the air,
And scent the forests which around thee tower,
And like the columns of a temple bear
The azure dome of heaven's gracious bower.

A spirit once I knew, contemplative,
Who shut the world away with sealings seven:
Profound, and pure, like thee, he seemed to live
Only to mirror back the face of heaven.