Here on this rugged bluff I stand alone
And look out on the waters. Could I tell—
Which I cannot—all that I see and feel;
Could I but give the swelling thoughts a tone
That press up to my lips—a song so sweet,
So thrilling in its tuneful harmonies,
Should send out on the air its rythmic beat,
That heedless wights should pause amid the street,
And listen with bowed heads and tearful eyes.
My eyes are wet. The beauty of the lake
At this still morning hour, draped in its veil
Of dreamy mist so soft, transluscent, pale;
Its music, as the blue waves gently break,
Move me to tears. Yet am I all alone;
No sympathetic glances kindle mine,
No answering eye, where kindred feelings shine,
Another heart interprets to my own.
Ah, well! Here are the softly gleaming waves,
Here are the gold-fringed clouds, above, below,
Which from yon heaven and from the waters glow;
Here is sunshine, which my forehead laves,
And there the white-winged ships go sailing by;
The cool wind blows, and lightly lifts my hair.
Can there be solitude amid a scene so fair?
Can one be lonely with such company?
Behind me lies the city, fast asleep,
Save early workmen going to their toil
With sounding tread. The long day's dusty moil
Clanks not along the streets. The convent bell,
Whose tones above the dreamers softly swell,
Unheeded, troubles not their slumber deep.
The sleeping city and pale blue lake,
The convent bell, the low waves' ceaseless break,
The morning mists—all these shall memory keep.
