Henry Kirke White (1785–1806)

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 phantasies upon me throng,

And I do ponder with most strange delight

On the calm slumbers of the dead man’s night.