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.