THE LAKE

By John Collings Squire

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.