The Poetry Corner

The Lake

By John Collings Squire, Sir

I am a lake, altered by every wind. The mild South breathes upon me, and I spread A dance of merry ripples in the sun. The West comes stormily and I am troubled, My waves conflict and black depths show between them. Under the East wind bitter I grow and chill, Slate-coloured, desolate, hopeless.But when blows A steady wind from the North my motion ceases, I am frozen smooth and hard; my conquered surface Returns the skies' cold light without a comment. I make no sound, nor can I; nor can I show What depth I have, if any depth, below.