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.
This poem is in the public domain.