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Poem by Henry Timrod


Sonnets. 9. I Know Not Why, But All This Weary Day


I know not why, but all this weary day,
Suggested by no definite grief or pain,
Sad fancies have been flitting through my brain;
Now it has been a vessel losing way,
Rounding a stormy headland; now a gray
Dull waste of clouds above a wintry main;
And then, a banner, drooping in the rain,
And meadows beaten into bloody clay.
Strolling at random with this shadowy woe
At heart, I chanced to wander hither! Lo!
A league of desolate marsh-land, with its lush,
Hot grasses in a noisome, tide-left bed,
And faint, warm airs, that nestle in the hush,
Like whispers round the body of the dead!



Henry Timrod


Henry Timrod's other poems:
  1. To Thee
  2. Two Portraits
  3. The Arctic Voyager
  4. The Cotton Boll
  5. The Stream is Flowing from the West


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