Well named thou art, O little lake Set in among the hills; Well named art thou,— each star doth make Reflected forms that fancies wake
And memory fondly fills. And nightly on the rugged shore Each cot with ruddy beam Lights up thy face from pane and door
And throws a stream of silver o'er Thy bosom like a dream. Thy hemlock hills, now dimly grown, Fling shadows on thy face,
And to their branch the birds have flown, Except the owl, whose monotone The listening ear can trace. There, where the starlight thickly trails
A path across thy wave, A passing boat a boatman hails Whose maiden crew still softly sails As with a pilot brave.
While from thy shore a lithe canoe Shoots o'er thy bosom fair, Leaving behind a milk-white view As when the beaver paddled thru
Thy waters unaware. Up rides the moon with rosy rim All silently and still, Chasing away the shadows dim
That on thy surface seem to swim Like wood nymphs from the hill. Now midnight comes, and on thy shore No boatman plies his way,
The cottage lights shine forth no more From window-pane or open door Where yet thy shadows play. Silent and strangely still is all;
The stars like candles are, No echoes on the forest fall,— Each lonely owl hath ceas'd to call His wood-mate from afar.
Silent and calmly still is all; Dim Night is monarch now, His kingdom is the midnight air, The forests his attendants fair,
Who, at his bidding, bow — And stand like sentinels asleep Beneath the moon's wan beam, Until Aurora fair doth creep
Above the hill where she doth keep Bright morn with welcome gleam.
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