The long, gray moss that softly swings

   In solemn grandeur from the trees,

   Like mournful funeral draperies,--

A brown-winged bird that never sings.



A shallow, stagnant, inland sea,

   Where rank swamp grasses wave, and where

   A deadliness lurks in the air,--

A sere leaf falling silently.



The death-like calm on every hand,

   That one might deem it sin to break,

   So pure, so perfect,--these things make

The mournful beauty of this land.