The ash grove

The ash grove, how graceful, how plainly to speaking

The harp through it playing has language for me;

Whenever the light through its branches is breaking,

A host of kind faces is gazing on me,

The friends of my childhood again are before me.

Each step wakes a memory as freely I roam.

With soft whispers laden its leaves rustle o'er me,

The ash grove, the ash grove alone is my home.



My lips smile no more; my heart loses its lightness,

No dream of the future my spirit can cheer.

I only can brood on the past and its brightness.

The dead I have mourned are again living here.

From every dark nook they press forward to meet me;

I lift up my eyes to the broad leafy dome,

And others are there, looking downward to greet me.

The ash grove, the ash grove alone is my home.