A Farm House by the River

I know a little country place

           Where still my heart doth linger,

And o'er its fields is every grace

           Lined out by memory's finger.

Back from the lane where poplars grew

           And aspens quake and quiver,

There stands all bath'd in summer's glow

           A farm house by the river.

Its eaves are touched with golden light

           So sweetly, softly shining,

And morning glories full and bright

           About the doors are twining.

And there endowed with every grace

           That nature's hand could giver her,

There lived the angel of the place

           In the farm house by the river.

Her eyes were blue, her hair was gold,

           Her face was bright and sunny;

The songs that from her bosom rolled

           Were sweet as summer's honey.

And I loved her well, that maid divine,

           And I prayed the Gracious Giver,

That I some day might call her mine

           In the farm house by the river.

Twas not to be — but God knows best.

           His will for aye be heeded!

Perhaps amid the angels' bliss,

           My little love was needed.

Her spirit from its thralldom torn

           Went singing o'er the river,

And that sweet life my heart shall mourn

           Forever and forever.

She dies one morn at early light

           When all the birds are singing,

And Heaven itself in pure delight

           Its bells of joy seemed ringing.

They laid her dust where soon and late

           The solemn grasses quiver,

And left alone and desolate

           The farm house by the river.