Classic Poem

The day had been a day of partial storm,
For the gray mist was drifting from the sea,
And o'er the moorland hung a heavy veil, —
A day of storm, yet fell no rain. I stood
Near sunset on the upland sere, and marked
A still, blue lake, far reaching to the east,
Skirted by woodlands deep, and nigh one house,
So placed, that he who dwelt there may have been
A lover of the field, and of the wood.
And while the dark mist drifted from the sea,
There flushed a sudden gleam of sunlight warm
Out of the west, at which the blue lake smiled,
And nature seemed inwardly glad. The scene
O'ertook me with a pleased surprise, — I stood
Wondering at the wild beauty, like that man
Who lost within the forest, from some hill
At evening sees his home afar, and shouts.
Then westward moving, I stood suddenly
Upon the curve of a clear lake, where no eye
Had fancied it, dropped in a hidden dell,
Embosomed in bright copses and dark pines,
And one low cottage on the swelling shore,
Its pleasing lines drawn clear against the sky,
A little rustic dwelling near the lake.

Glad in this new-found wealth, I sought the way,
Yet facing westward on the dusky moor,
Where solitude was native to the air.
And in a moment, further on, I came,
Not dreaming of these waters in that place,
Upon the bank of a round mirror, framed
In the brown hills. There, stretched on the crisp moss,
And more than joyous for the charming scene,
I thanked good Nature for the generous skill
By which she multiplied my happiness,
Made me three lakes, thrice to rejoice my eyes,
The careless eyes that slowly seek the good.
And as I mused, upon the yielding moss,
A flashing beam of day's last glory fell
In unexpected splendor, through the gloom,
Slanting across the silent, lonely hills,
Until the place seemed social in this fire.
Then rising, with a love for the wild spot,
I hastened westward, as the day grew faint,
And climbing a low hill, stretched at my feet
A gray and dimpled lake lay in the shade;
A shapely basin rounded in soft curves,
Whose little lines of beach betray the waves,
That with a lapsing murmur touch the sand,
And loftier shores, with rain-swept grooves of soil,
And pleasant headlands crested by green trees,
And longer reaches pictured with proud woods.

Upon the steepest bank was reared a house,
Where sign of life or occupant was none,
Not e'en a barking dog or lowing cow, —
A tall and narrow structure on the sky.
Now had there been true feeling in my eyes
For nature's pure enchantment, — had I seen
Intelligently what her forms express,
And had my heart been loving as it should,
Touched by the concords of the sunset hour,
I might have made a hymn, and sung it there.