Or freighted with the moon's pale poesy,
Or blown till sobbing wavelets plash the lea,
Or sunk in starless night like fabled pond.
Whate'er thy mood, O dream-kissed, mountain lake;
It lingers still, my inmost self replies;
But where's the song that plumbs the depth of thought?
The lyre has lost its strings, the words forsake.
What Art's so high; but Nature far outvies?
In silent wonderment, God's voice is caught.