Poem by Henry Kirke White

The Dark Woodland

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.

1. Description of a Summer’s Eve
2. The Trent
3. Lines Written in Wilford Churchyard on Recovery from Sickness
4. My Own Character
5. To an Early Primrose

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