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! ………….. “Sonnet 9” By Henry Timrod Read by Ethan Holliman Directed by Walter Evans Copyright Georgia Regents University 2013 All rights reserved