Lake Leman

It is the sacred hour: above the far
     Low emerald hills that northward fold,
     Calmly, upon the blue the evening star
     Floats, wreathed in dusky gold.
     The winds have sung all day; but now they lie
     Faint, sleeping; and the evening sounds awake.
     The slow bell tolls across the water: I
     Am haunted by the spirit of the lake.
     It seems as though the sounding of the bell
     Intoned the low song of the water-soul,
     And at some moments I can hardly tell
     The long-resounding echo from the toll.
     O thou mysterious lake, thy spell
     Holds all who round thy fruitful margin dwell.
     Oft have I seen home-going peasants' eyes
     Lit with the peace that emanates from thee.
     Those who among thy waters plunge, arise
     Filled with new wisdom and serenity.
     Thy veins are in the mountains. I have heard,
     Down-stretched beside thee at the silent noon,
     With leaning head attentive to thy word,
     A secret and delicious mountain-tune,
     Proceeding as from many shadowed hours
     In ancient forests carpeted with flowers,
     Or far, where hidden waters, wandering
     Through banks of snow, trickle, and meet, and sing.
     Ah, what repose at noon to go,
     Lean on thy bosom, hold thee with wide hands,
     And listen for the music of the snow!
     But most, as now,
     When harvest covers thy surrounding lands,
     I love thee, with a coronal of sheaves
     Crowned regent of the day;
     And on the air thy placid breathing leaves
     A scent of corn and hay.
     For thou hast gathered (as a mother will
     The sayings of her children in her heart)
     The harvest-thoughts of reapers on the hill,
     When the cool rose and honeysuckle fill
     The air, and fruit is laden on the cart.
     Thou breathest the delight
     Of summer evening at the deep-roofed farm
     And meditation of the summer night,
     When the enravished earth is lying warm
     From the recent kisses of the conquering sun.

     Dwell as a spirit in me, O thou one
     Sweet natural presence. In the years to be
     When all the mortal loves perchance are done,
     Them I will bid farewell, but, oh, not thee.
     I love thee. When the youthful visions fade,
     Fade thou not also in the hopeless past.
     Be constant and delightful, as a maid
     Sought over all the world, and found at last.