In Louisiana

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.