IX “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 rustle in the hush,

Like whispers round the body of the dead!