BY THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
Joaquin Miller
he king of rivers has a dolorous shore, - A dreamful dominion of cypress-trees,
- A gray bird rising forever more,
- And drifting away toward the Mexican seas
- A lone bird seeking for some lost mate,
- So dolorous, lorn and desolate.
- The shores are gray as the sands are gray;
- And gray are the trees in their cloaks of moss;
- That gray bird rising and drifting away,
- Slow dragging its weary long legs across—
- So weary, just over the gray wood's brink;
- It wearies one, body and soul, to think.
- These vast gray levels of cypress wood,
- The gray soldiers graves; and so, God's will
- These cypress-trees roots are still running blood;
- The smoke of battle in their mosses still—
- That gray bird wearily drifting away
- Was startled some long-since battle day.