Cypresses
Low lies a land, swept by a languid breeze,
Where aged mosses cling to wearied trees,
As somber rivers seek their destined seas.
Where listless cypresses in cadence sway
Above dark swamps, as in the sodden gray
Of morn, some lonely heron glides away.
Far are the sweep and strident stress of sound;
There muted silence, unperturbed, is found,
And hushed inertia is all around.