poems

1 THE LAKE OF DISMAL SWAMP
THEY MADE HER A GRAVE TOO COLD AND DAMP FOR A SOUL SO WARM AND TRUE AND SHE'S GONE TO THE LAKE OF DISMAL SWAMP WHERE ALL NIGHT LONG BY A FIREFLY LAMP SHE PADDLES HER WHITE CANOE AND HER FIREFLY LAMP I SOON WILL SEE AND HER PADDLE I SOON SHALL HEAR LONG AND LOVING OUR LIFE SHOULD BE AND I'LL HIDE THE MAID IN THE CYPRESS TREE WHEN THE FOOTSTEP OF DEATH IS NEAR AWAY TO DISMAL SWAMP HE SPEEDS HIS PATH WAS RUGGED AND SORE THROUGH TANGLED JUNIPER BEDS OF REEDS THROUH MANY A FEN WHERE THE SERPENT FEEDS AND MAN NEVER TROD BEFORE AND WHEN ON THE EARTH HE SANK TO SLEEP IF SLUMBER HIS EYELIDS KNEW HE LAY WHERE THE DEADLY VINE DOTH WEEP ITS VENMOUS TEAR AND NIGHTLY STEEP THE FLESH WITH BLISTERING DEW AND NEAR HIM THE SHE WOLF STIRR'D THE BRAKE AND THE COPPER SNAKE BREATHED IN HIS EAR TILL HE STARTING CRIED FROM HIS DREAM AWAKE OH WHEN SHALL I SEE THE DUSKY LAKE AND THE WHITE CANOE OF MY DEAR HE SAW THE LAKE A METOR BRIGHT QUICK OVER ITS SURFACE PLAY'D WELCOME HE SAID MY DEAR ONE'S LIGHT AND THE DIM SHORE ECHO'D FOR MANY A NIGHT THE NAME OF THE DEATH COLD MAID TIL HE HOLLOW'D A BOAT OF THE BIRCHEN BARK WHICH CARRIED HIM OFF FROM SHORE FAR FAR HE FOLLOW'D THE METOR SPARK THE WINDS WAS HIGH AND THE CLOUDS WERE DARK AND THE BOAT RETURN'D NO MORE BUT OFT FROM THE INDIAN HUNTER'S CAMP THIS LOVER AND MAID SO TRUE ARE SEEN AT THE HOUR OF MIDNIGHT DAMP TO CROSS THE LAKE BY A FIREFLY LAMP AND PADDLE THEIR WHITE CANOE THOMAS MOORE