Charles Wharton Stork Poems

Oh, praise me not the silent folk;
To me they only seem
Like leafless, bird-abandoned oak
And muffled, frozen stream.
...

Death is like moonlight in a lofty wood,
   That pours pale magic through the shadowy leaves;
   'T is like the web that some old perfume weaves
In a dim, lonely room where memories brood;
...

How must it be to swim among your kind,
Dull with the cold and dreary with the dark,
Enclosed above, beneath, before, behind
...