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The Dark Woodland

Henry Kirke White

As thus oppressed with many a heavy care
(Though young yet sorrowful), I turn my feet
To the dark woodland, longing much to greet
The form of peace, if chance she sojourn there;

Deep thought and dismal, verging to despair,
Fills my sad breast; and tired with this vain coil
I shrink dismayed before life's upland toil,
And as amid the leaves the evening air

Whispers still melody, I think, ere long
When I no more can hear, these woods will speak;
And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek,
And mournful fantasies upon me throng,

And I do ponder with most strange delight
On the calm slumbers of the dead man's night.

Home :: Poetry :: Sorrow and Sadness (4) :: The Dark Woodland

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