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.