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 nestle in the hush, 
Like whispers round the body of the dead!