The Ash Grove
HALF of the grove stood dead, and those that yetlived madeLittle more than the dead ones made of shade.If they led to a house, long before they had seenits fall:But they welcomed me; I was glad without causeand delayed.
Scarce a hundred paces under the trees was theInterval--Paces each sweeter than sweetest miles--butnothing at all,Not even the spirits of memory and fear withrestless wing,Could climb down in to molest me over the wall
That I passed through at either end withoutnoticing.And now an ash grove far from those hills can bringThe same tranquillity in which I wander a ghostWith a ghostly gladness, as if I heard a girl sing
The song of the Ash Grove soft as love uncrossed,And then in a crowd or in distance it were lost,But the moment unveiled something unwillingto dieAnd I had what most I desired, without search ordesert or cost.
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