by Albert Bigelow Paine

    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.