The liquid darkness of the lake
Is where I live and sleep and wake
Where wavelets whisper, lisp, and break
And sparks of stars swim at my side
To mirror Heavenís milky tide.
I send my prehistoric wails
Across the night on silver sails,
And everything in moonlight pales
To hear soliloquies of loon
Beneath the molten silver moon.
Is it my laugh or just my cry
That lures the night to swoon and sigh
And listen close as if to die
Were soon the doom of all the earth?
Why then this strange mesmeric mirth?
Behind all things there stands a thought.
Behind the thought it is not naught;
There is a Thinker to be sought.
Therefore, by night one must not swoon,
But hear the laughter of the loon.
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