The 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 poplar 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 give 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 heed!

              Perhaps amid the angels blest,

              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 died 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 disolate

              The farm house by the river.