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.