The Shores Of Nothing

There's a little lake that lies     In a valley, where the skies     Kiss the mountains, as they rise,     On the crown;     And the heaven-born lite     Are accustomed to retreat     From the pestilential heat     Lower down.     Where the Mighty, for a space,     Mix with Beauty, Rank, and Grace,     (I myself was in the place,     At my best!)     And the atmosphere's divine,     While the deodar and pine     Are particularly fine     For the chest.     And a little month ago,     When the sun was lying low,     And the water lay aglow     Like a pearl,     I, remarkably arrayed,     Dipped an unobtrusive blade     In the lake - and in the shade -     With a girl.     O 'twas pleasant thus to glide     On the 'softly-flowing tide'     (Which it's not!) and, undescried,     Take a hand     In the sweet, idyllic sports     That are known in such resorts,     To the sympathetic snorts     Of the Band.     Till, when o'er the 'still lagoon'     Passed the golden afternoon,     The preposterous bassoon,     Growling deep,     Saved the King and knelled the day     As the crimson changed to grey     And the little valley lay     Half asleep.     It is finished. She was kind.     'Out of sight is out of mind.'     But the taste remains behind,     (And the bills,)     And I'd give the world to know     If there's some one else in tow     With my love (a month ago)     In the Hills!     O ye valleys, tell me, pray,     Was she on the lake to-day?     Does she foot it in the gay,     Social whirl?     O ye Mountains of Gilboa,     Send a bird, or kindly blow a     Breeze to tell me all you know about that girl!