Poem of the week (via Maud Newton)

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.