Literary New Orleans, #4

In Louisiana
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.

(1900)


Newsletter

You might want to subscribe to my free Substack newsletter, Ancestor Trouble, if the name makes intuitive sense to you.