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. |
