Classic Poem

Row on, row on, the lake is still,
The stars are bright above;
Oh, talk no more of good or ill,
No more of hate or love.

A million stars are bright on high,
They reck not of us, they;
Round us the shadowy mountains lie;
How near, how far away!

We cannot speak; all is too still;
Nor smile, nor hope, nor fear,
There is no good, there is no ill,
Nor joy, nor sorrow here.

Only the lake's unearthly calm,
The silence of the sky,
And, in our hearts, the awe, the charm,
The eternal mystery.