The Brass Plaque and Naught Else

It was early morn, in 1885,
I was out for the air,
Bled Lake by my side.
Through the soup like mist,
I saw the distant and faint spire,
Like a proud lighthouse,
Without its morning fire.
It was shrouded, to be sure,
But not without view,
And the land it stood on,
Embellished its height anew.
The fog lifted slightly,
And the island I could spy,
With glows here and there,
From windows through the still darkened trees.
My breath caught a moment and I could envision,
A damsel peering out,
Across the rippled sea.
Hair black as night,
And piled across her shoulder,
Like the moss on the rocks,
Thick and rich and flowing.
The water of the narrows,
Was pink form the sun,
But, blue from the lingering night,
And I scarce could take it in,
Without rubbing my eyes.
Shadowed though the island was,
And terrible in portent,
It contrasted that,
With romance and madness.
Rowing with all my might,
Poor though that was,
I sweated my way to the rocky shore.
I threaded my way up the pebbly bank,
To further glimpse the maiden I'd seen.
A man though I am,
And glad of a comely woman,
I was tense as if,
By my presence, she'd be gone,
In the flash of a moment.
Finally, puffing,
I emerged from the trees,
There she was, standing, still,
Looking to see.
I laughed though I admired,
For the beauty she surely possessed,
A statue, a momument,
brass plaque and naught else.