The herald of the dawn glows faintly in the eastern sky
A lonely Loon is softly calling me.
From far out on the sleeping lake, I hear the haunting cry,
And hear the echoes race from tree to tree.
And down below the mirror that reflects that morning sky
The hungry pike and pickerel lie in wait,
For a small, unwary breakfast, that might come swimming by
Not suspecting the impending hand of fate!
Across the shining surface drifts the flimsy, misty shawl
That will vanish as the day begins to break.
The slumbering world is stirring now in answer to the call
Of the lonesome Loon, ..the Spirit of the Lake.
But that was sixty years ago I heard that soulful bird,
Most daydreams fade so quickly when you wake,
But this one stays as vivid as the first day that I heard
That sad lament out on the darkened lake!
I made my choices years ago to seek a place unseen
Where blighted life might be renewed for me,
A land beneath the waving palms, where snow is never seen,
Just golden beaches and the bright blue sea.
The tang of spruce and cedar are but distant memories
Held in a place that’s known at times to ache,
And even yet, ten thousand miles across the trackless sea,
He calls me still, ..The Spirit of the Lake.
Frank Halliwell, Public Domain Poem