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.
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...
A simple-hearted child was He, And He was nothing more; In summer days, like you and me, He played about the door, Or gathered, where the father toiled. The shavings from the floor. Sometimes He lay upon the grass, The same as you and I, And saw the hawks above Him pass Like specks...
